


Inscribed, Indelible

by HalfBakedPoet



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV), Warehouse 13
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Crossover, F/F, Flashbacks, I guess angst is a thing here?, Light Angst, OTP Feels, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians, Warehouse 12, Xena cameo, and okay I've resigned to it this is also a slow burn, and other things I did not anticipate, and useless bisexuals, sure why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/HalfBakedPoet
Summary: Three years after severing ties from the Warehouse, H.G. Wells stumbles upon a most interesting book. What she doesn't know is that Anne Lister's diary has much more to reveal than everyday tales of lesbian intrigue...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fanfiction and I don't own Warehouse 13 or Gentleman Jack, their respective characters, etcetera, copyright blah. 
> 
> I do own the fun I had writing it.

Myka whaled on the hotel door, her fist thunderous against the wood. “Helena! Open up, you have a lot of explaining to do, starting with how you got ahold of Anne Lister’s diary.”

\--

Miss Lister was not wholly unknown to Miss Wells in her days at Warehouse 12; it was always rumored among the agents that Halifax’s notorious Gentleman Jack had generated an artifact or two before her untimely death in Russia. Off-the-cuff remarks about rather more lewd-leaning curiosities being “Miss Lister’s knickers” and the like weren’t uncommon. Such singularity in a person whose own lifetime just eclipsed the beginnings of the Warehouse’s tenancy in London was indicative of some, ah, _wonderment_. How convenient, then, that Miss Lister spent a decent portion of her life out of the country: Helena had surmised that artifacts belonging to Miss Lister were either too unremarkable to garner a high-risk curiosity or perhaps were lost to Miss Lister’s international adventures. She certainly had brushed elbows with many people of import: Georges Cuvier practically owned a shelf in the medical aisles of the Warehouse, his surgical instruments having once triggered a multifold operation for Helena and Wolcott to track down piecemeal. It came as no surprise, then, albeit annoyingly unwarranted, that Anne Lister’s diary should appear as the artifact du jour.

In another time as a curiosity of Warehouse 12, perhaps over four million words—a sixth of those encoded—about the life of an indomitable, landowning British woman who married another woman would have been a delight. A puzzle for Helena and Caturanga to decipher over several near-perfect cups of tea, to discuss over the next day’s spectacular chess match. Perhaps even a guide to her younger self still navigating newfound desires, the scent of apples lingering as she pored over the decrypted pages. A younger Helena would have fancied herself so dashing and capable as Anne—not that she was lacking in either department in her adulthood—but perhaps knowing of a woman nearly identical in brilliance would have made her feel less alone in unrelenting Victorian England. Christina could have easily fit that bill, if she had lived…

Helena flinched. It had become harder to compartmentalize thoughts of all the things Christina held in potential—the most prominent being the companionship enjoyed by single mothers and their only children—especially since leaving Warehouse 13. While still capable of enjoying solitude, a hundred years of nothing but her own company in bronze had inflicted more of a sense of loneliness in Helena; the idea of a companion, platonic or otherwise, greatly appealed, and outdated potentials seemed more interesting when left to her own devices. She had considered a cat for a brief time—what had happened to Emily Lake’s Dickens?—but relented when she realized that unlike adult relationships, a pet would be dependent on her for survival. She hadn’t settled enough to provide a stable home to anyone, either, let alone herself.

So the last three years had been nonstop travel, with occasional “special consultations” in curiosities. Not all of these consultations were of Warehouse variety; genuine antique expertise was a niche market but high paying in the right places, and on the rare occasions that the curiosity in question was of Warehouse grade, well… Helena had become familiar with the title “anonymous” long ago. She was always out of sight—but never far away—before Pete and Myka could swoop in to bag or goo whatever rogue trinket threatened humanity’s peace of mind that day. On those four and counting occasions, Helena kept her distance, but she could always peer around a corner or over the edge of sunglasses at Myka, who looked fit as ever, if a little tired, her brown curls dashing to and fro as she sprinted after whoever it was that had Sam Adams' distilling tap. In the end, artifact always succumbed to the goo or the bag and with a pang, Helena would retreat, disappointed that she didn't need to swoop in with her grappler and save the day like old times.

Anne Lister’s diary, however, was an exception to Helena's somewhat self-imposed no-contact rule. The _exceptional _exception. Not only was this diary excessively _long_, possessing of many volumes, but it was the subject of much public study. Tucked away behind a wall in Shibden by a clever and well-meaning nephew for all those years, its modern rediscovery sparked a renaissance of gender studies. It was not something simple to replace, though perhaps Artie would have something in his bag to make neutralized copies, and it was currently the cause of a great amount of lamentation in Halifax: all married women in the vicinity suddenly announced that they were leaving their husbands, and many single women were falling over themselves to catch the eye of one particular brilliant inventor, who at this moment was pacing her hotel room with the door firmly locked and paisley curtains tightly drawn.

The job in question had been more of an invitation, one of those “I know someone who knows someone” deals; the invitation to tour Shibden, an included formality extended by the interested Gender Studies Professor Belcombe, an acquaintance of a London antiques dealer’s friend, whose TA had all too eagerly offered to guide Helena through the estate museum. American Marta, in her high tops and denim jacket, with her short strawberry blonde hair shaved on one side, couldn’t have been a quarter of Helena’s bronze-advanced age, but was enthusiastic enough in her proud, very fast explanation of her thesis: an examination of Anne Lister’s life in relation to the lesbian resistance identity in modern times and media, or something like that. Helena had to smile; Marta’s energy was infectious, and Helena knew she would have been the same way if offered the opportunity in her youth to examine such a momentous tome with so personally similar a character at its heart. (She pushed down the thought that Marta reminded her a little of Claudia.) Somehow, Professor Belcombe had acquired access to Miss Lister’s original diaries for Marta’s research—code and all—and it was all too easy to convince the blushing TA to let her have a look.

Myka would certainly chide her for taking advantage of Marta like that, but Helena was already paying for her smooth arrogance, her casual flirtation. It seemed innocuous enough to “borrow” a single volume for an evening or five, and nothing _strange _had occurred when she picked it up (though now that she thought about it, Marta had turned several shades pinker and made less and less coherent sentences toward the end of their visit). Decrypting the diary in her own fashion despite previous iterations of decryption had been satisfying enough—Caturanga would have been proud. Reading had been yet more fun: this volume recounted Miss Lister’s first inclinations toward a Miss Ann Walker. But of course, the things Helena enjoyed were never to last undisturbed. No sooner had she decrypted a rather explicit line up Miss Walker’s skirts, than she noticed the commotion outside her window. Helena peered down into the shining summer faces of nearly fifty women of varying ages, in various stages of dress. Marta was among them, round faced and hopeful, neck craned up to the third floor balcony where Helena lurked, her stomach lurching as she turned back to stare at the open notebook on the desk.

That was when she had called Myka. Claudia picked up.

“H.G.! It’s been what, three plus years?” Claudia’s voice trembled a bit, but not with any discernable emotion, which Helena took to be some slight exertion. There was a little scuffle on the other end, probably Myka hissing at Claudia to give her the phone and Claud scooting out of whichever room like a greased monkey.

“Claudia, as much as I would love a cozy catch-up about my somewhat mundane life post-Warehouse, now is not the time. There is a, ah, curiosity outside my door.”

“You’ve got a ping?” Claudia was not skilled at hiding the hope in her voice.

“Rather, I _am _your ping, darling,” Helena whispered. The women outside were muttering, a low sound that quickly started to build.

Claudia didn’t hold the phone far enough away from her face and her voice reverberated in Helena’s skull. “You guys! We’ve got a ping and you’re not gonna belie—“ Again, there was a scuffling sound and this time a muffled “ouch!” from Claudia, a determined sort of shuffle of the phone’s mic being dragged across fabric before—

“Helena George Wells, _tell _me you have not been whammied,” Myka demanded.

For once in about three years, Helena couldn’t find much to say. Her throat went dry and her neck felt hot all the way up to her ears. “Myka, I—“

“Where are you?” Myka had a way of sounding both furious and relieved at the same time as she cut off Helena’s stammer. Helena could imagine Myka biting her lip, shoving an errant hand in her curls—fingers sticking in place rather than running through—those green eyes narrowing. Helena curled into a sitting position on the floor against the side of the desk, her own fingers twining around her locket chain.

She found her voice. “Halifax, long story, Anne Lister’s diary, it seems to have charmed the local women and they’ve mobbed themselves outside—“

“Where have you _been?” _Myka demanded. “Where did you _go?” _Helena inhaled sharply. Myka would have thrown up the hand trying very hard to comb through her mane, it would be settling on her hip now. There was a pause, and Helena could just hear Myka trying to control her breathing on the other end.

She drew her own breath and started again, feebly. “Myka, I had to—“

But again, Myka cut across her. “You’re gonna have to come up with something better by the time we get there.” The line went dead. Helena rested her head against the desk, closed her eyes and reopened them to stare at the ceiling.

\--

“Damn, H.G., I knew you had game, but this kind of takes the cake,” said Claudia through the door. Helena crossed the room and she could hear the familiar snap of purple gloves and the crackle of a bag fished out of a backpack. She paused before unlocking the deadbolt, and again before turning the handle and pulling the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks, I decided to write something for myself for once and I'm having a lot of fun with it. Warehouse 13 felt like a perfect crossover with Gentleman Jack, but of course, what sapphic stuff doesn't mesh well together? Now that I think about it, despite them being my first ever lesbian OTP after I came out, I don't think I've ever successfully written a Bering & Wells fic before... I was very picky about my characterizations of Helena and Myka back in the day, but now that I've grown up a bit more, finished my degree, and had quite a number of adventures, I guess now is the time. 
> 
> We'll get into some Warehouse 12 flashbacks soon. Have fun and be kind to yourselves, friends.
> 
> Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

“Hi! Let me just…” Claudia wasted no time in bagging the artifact. She ducked under Helena’s arm, snatched up the notebook, flipped it closed, and dropped it into the bag with a spray of sparks. What power the diary had over the women outside dispelled in a surge of light discharged from Helena, and just in time: in the twenty-four hours it had taken for Myka and Claudia to book flights and a car rental, fly over the pond, and drive to Halifax, each member of Helena’s steadily growing army of admirers had begun to realize that she was surrounded by competition. Myka had knocked just as the arguments outside rose to a pitch that indicated blows would soon follow. Helena had thankfully thought to pack sandwiches into the minifridge before the artifact began flexing its power, and so was not half-starved by the time the Warehouse agents arrived. She was, however, a little stir crazy and very much unprepared for the very Myka-ish glare awaiting her in the hall.

“Three years after I left you in Boone with Nate, not so much as a call, but then you call me because your problem is that too many women are attracted to you?”

“Hello to you too, darling,” said Helena, a little sheepish. She cleared her throat and assumed the carefree attitude that had introduced Pete and Myka to cavorite in London all that time ago. “Right, so, the problem here wasn’t that women were attracted to me—we both know it’s not uncommon—but rather that they may have been about to hurt each other for my attention?”

Myka slowly closed her eyes, her mouth forming a thin, exasperated line. “You’re a big girl, H.G., you could have neutralized this one on your own.”

“And yet here you stand.” To Helena’s slowly returning smug pleasure, Myka’s eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief for half a second, and went right back to the fixed glare. “The fact of the matter is simply that I ran out of Warehouse-sanctioned tools with which to neutralize artifacts over a year ago—more of an emergency supply anyway—and I thought I wouldn’t be needing a fresh supply since I thought myself more officially done with all the artifact nonsense in the world.”

“God, you’re such a liar,” said Myka.

Claudia chose that moment to wrap her arms around Helena from behind. She pressed her cheek into Helena’s back and said, “You got sloppy, H.G., I traced those 'anonymous' calls to your location at the time and found you through local security cameras. That pay phone in Budapest was a bang-up, wasn’t it, Myka?”

Helena untangled Claudia’s arms and turned around to properly hug her. “It’s nice to see you too, Claudia. Good to see you’re still doing the things right.”

“That makes one of us.”

Myka sidled past them to open the curtains. She peered down at where the mob used to be, where a lone, round-faced grad student gave one last longing glance at the balcony and departed. Quietly, she said, “You let Claudia trace you.”

Helena fiddled with her locket. “I suppose if I didn’t want to be found, I would have left those artifacts well enough alone, tried a different avenue of contact,” she said slowly. “Sent smoke signals,” she attempted.

“For the record, H.G., subliminal messaging that only I can understand isn’t the best way to make a booty call,” said Claudia, amused eyebrows arching.

Myka turned away, shoulders tense, almost pressed against the sliding glass door. Helena, not normally one to be flustered, choked on a little saliva. Claudia _had_ noticed a few of their flirtations leading up to Warehouse 2, and the aftermath of Walter Sykes—if you called barging into Myka’s room with an urgent question about dinner preferences, shrieking, covering her eyes and whirling out ahead of the slamming door “noticing.” If you called what Claudia noticed “flirtation.”

“I just meant if you wanted us to find you, you could have, y’know, done the normal thing and texted?” Myka’s shoulders dropped a little and Helena regained her breath.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” she said dryly.

“So,” said Claudia, dangling the artifact bag with a wicked grin, “Anne Lister’s diary. What was she, a buddy of yours back in the day? Friend with benefits?”

Helena shook her head. “Unfortunately, Miss Lister died about twenty-six years before I was born; our timelines did not have the good fortune to overlap for a meeting, as much as I would have appreciated her mentorship.” Helena tapped a finger to her lips. “She was rather remarkable, and I could have learned a lot from her. Making my way on my own successes and not allowing men to overshadow my brilliance with their bravado, for one.”

She recounted how she had acquired the diary, but left out the bit about half-seducing Marta to get it. It was selfish of her, really, to allow herself to be tempted to steal the rare (four million) words of a woman older, wiser, and just as if not more clever than she. Myka kept staring out over the balcony, leaning against the doorframe, listening, but not committing more than a soft, neutral sound every now and then. She worried her bottom lip with straight incisors, a gesture Helena recognized in combination with the furrowed brow as Myka thinking about three steps ahead. Claudia sat on the end of the bed in rapt attention, her mind also working ahead to—

“It’s a volume,” Myka mused at the same time Claudia interjected, “There’s more of them.”

“And you would be correct,” said Helena, “Anne Lister would have been amazing at manual inventory; she catalogued nearly every detail of her life.” She made pointed eye contact with Claudia here. “Every detail.” Claudia didn’t blush as Helena expected, but rather grinned with one side of her mischievous mouth.

“Four million words is a lot to describe her sex life. What a player,” said Claudia.

“Not to mention the encryption, you’d enjoy her code—"

“Never mind the filthy details, we have a whole set of potential artifacts to track down,” Myka interrupted, rifling through the dresser drawers. She dumped Helena’s roller bag on the bed behind Claudia and started throwing clothes into it. Helena exchanged a glance with Claudia.

“Excuse me, darling, I wasn’t under the impression that I was leaving Halifax anytime soon,” she said coolly.

“Sure you are,” said Claudia, as though she was not party to the most nonchalant kidnapping. Myka dropped a stack of shirts into the suitcase without a word. “You didn’t think we’d show up without taking you back to Univille, did you? Quid pro quo and all that.”

“As much as I appreciate your concern for my person and your appearance to my rescue, I was quite enjoying my stay in Halifax until that mildly unfortunate incident. I would like for you to stop packing for me.” Helena placed a gentle hand on Myka’s forearm. “I will accompany you to collect the rest of the diary and then I will remain here.” Myka’s cheeks betrayed the slightest pink tinge. “It was never my intention to return to the Warehouse, but it would seem that artifacts keep finding me.”

Myka flared. “Jesus, Helena, where will you go? This world outside the Warehouse isn’t meant for you and deep down you know that, or you wouldn’t keep dropping us a line every time you felt lonely and _happened _to spot a rogue artifact that you very well could have planted yourself.”

Helena winced. That was low—she hadn’t truly used artifacts for malicious personal gain since Warehouse 2—but Myka wasn’t exactly incorrect. Samuel Adams’ distilling tap had been her first find in consultation, one she smoothly purchased “for her own collection.” And it hadn’t been very difficult to then pass it along to another buyer for double the price, wait two minutes as he walked away, and make the call from a nearby train station. Thankfully, the artifact was fast-acting, and the buyer was drunk before he realized it, all fluid turning to beer at his touch. She made enough money on the sale to set her for a couple of months, and the Warehouse acquired another artifact, it was a win-win. The unfortunate—albeit rather disgustingly rich—fellow none the worse for wear than a rough hangover and a few (several) thousand dollars lighter in wallet. He would never know what happened, having blacked out soon after Myka neutralized the tap.

Myka continued, softer, “You’re practically begging for an excuse to come back, Helena. What are you running from?”

_You_, she both wanted and didn’t want to say. It was the reason Myka had won her over at Yellowstone. It was why, in another timeline, bubbling an anomaly in the Remati Shackle in the face of a nuclear bomb around Myka, and staying outside it, had worked. Helena fidgeted with her locket and said nothing. _The things I love don’t last, Myka. You are not expendable like that_. It was easier to break Myka’s heart in Boone than watch her die because an old haunt arrived in Helena’s wake. It was easier to constantly travel and support from the shadows, ensure Myka was safe from harm. Helena understood, of course, that this anxiety was not a voice of reason, but still she kept indulging it like a spoiled child because it was simply easier to put it off.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, H.G., come home,” said Claudia. “I mean, not for _Pete’s _sake—well, sort of—you know what I mean.” She stood from the bed and started helping Myka. Into the suitcase tumbled once-neat piles of Helena’s slacks and underwear, neither agent batting an eye. “We all miss you, even Artie’s been saying you would have valuable intel on some of these older artifact cases.”

“Arthur also suddenly changed his tune about me after the Walter Sykes incident,” Helena muttered. But then Myka had turned around and Helena’s throat caught; nestled in her slender hands was the grappler. A bit more dented and scratched since last she used it—was it in Budapest that she made a quick getaway onto a roof as Pete came barreling around the alley?—it still had its matte brass sheen, and it still held fast that memory of whisking Myka to safety from an oncoming car. _Keep it, you can owe me_.

The grappler seemed frozen in a sliver of time. Myka looked at Helena, not allowing herself to silently beg or indeed show much more than weariness. _We made a good team, didn’t we?_

The plane ride to South Dakota wasn’t frigid, nor was the collection of the remaining diaries at all taxing. Myka breezily flashed her Secret Service credentials, and Professor Belcombe, though wary of United States meddling in British affairs, obliged with the rest of the volumes of Anne Lister’s writings. They promised to ship the diaries back once the investigation was through, though not including that the returned books would be cleverly fabricated copies. Helena suggested that Marta use the decrypted manuscripts in the meantime—but also slyly added that Marta should examine the works of H.G. Wells to add a level of science fiction to her research. There may yet have been a hint of feminist theory she slipped into her stories. Myka gave a subtle eye roll, with the ghost of a smirk.

Claudia sat between them in coach class for their hastily booked red eye. They had a whole row to themselves, and Claudia filled in Helena on Warehouse antics from the past three years. Most recently, they had recovered the original _Xena: Warrior Princess_ Chakram, which caused its bearer to ululate like Lucy Lawless and perform feats of physics-defying ass-kicking, as Claudia described it, but doomed whoever used it to a tragic end. Pete had heartily enjoyed this one, but lamented the fact that _Hercules_ had no artifacts of its own, to which Claudia said Hercules had nothing on Xena—which was true, he admitted. With relish, Claudia recalled Myka doing several backflips up a twenty-foot wall and acquiring a temporary taste for leather armor, which Myka vehemently denied.

“You looked good, Mykes,” Claudia laughed.

“If you call shrieking like a banshee and undressing like a maniac attractive,” Myka protested.

“Bacchae,” Claudia corrected, swiping through Fruit Ninja on her phone. Always had to be doing three things at once, Claudia. “It’s a shame the Chakram didn’t play the theme music for you as well. Loduca did a fantastic job on the score.”

“Beauty is as beauty does, I’m sure you looked ravishing as ever,” said Helena idly, turning away as her brain caught up with what she said. Her ears felt warmer. She did not add that beauty was in the eye of the beholder; while the subjectivity part was true, a second cliché would have been a self-imposed threat to her reputation as a brilliant storyteller.

They spent most of the rest of the flight in polite silence, Claudia already comfortable enough with Helena’s presence to doze on her shoulder. Helena caught Myka with the corner of her eye, hoping to glimpse her with her head thrown back against the seat, mouth hanging open. No such luck. Myka, ever the workaholic, was zoned in on her tablet—a Donovan-upgraded Farnsworth, no doubt—documenting the acquisition of the Lister diaries and preparing inventory files. Helena softened.

“Myka, it’s nearly three in the morning your time. You should sleep.” Helena shifted Claudia’s head on her shoulder, red hair spilling over. Claudia murmured unintelligibly and adjusted.

“I don’t sleep much anymore, Helena,” said Myka curtly, still bent over her work. “Not since Boone.”

Helena felt a guilty stab in her gut and the silence grew colder for the remainder of the flight.

Myka had insisted on driving back to the B&B, and neither Helena nor Claudia objected. Claudia promptly fell asleep in the backseat and Helena rested her forehead against the window. In her mind’s eye, she scanned the fragment of Anne Lister’s diary with an unusual Myka-level amount of recall. Before she had been interrupted by the throng of artifact-induced, overly affectionate women, there had been the slightest blip in Lister’s coding that had caught her attention for just a moment… Helena sat bolt upright. How many times had the number twelve appeared outside of the lines of code? Miss Lister’s handwriting was certainly cramped and difficult to read—some called this the mark of high intelligence—but yes, that was right, between some lines, errantly, almost too small to see, and never infringing upon decryption, twelve appeared.

\--

_London, 1832_

_“What do you smell, Mr. Caturanga?” The young, bespectacled man scratched his patchy beard, observing the underground office with intense curiosity. No detail escaped him: the desk, though cluttered with files and a teacup, had a neatness to it understood only by its owner, whose top hat and walking stick rested in a corner on the brass coat tree; the astrolabe perched on top of the stack of folders and paper practically vibrated with energy; the walls hummed with a little more than the bustle of aboveground activity which meant…_

_“This remarkable building is alive,” he said simply to the shrewd woman before him. She could sense a slight cockiness as he said this: he had figured out the puzzle and enjoyed being correct. He grinned with satisfaction._

_“In a manner of speaking, yes, the Warehouse is an entity unto itself, but what do you smell?”_

_“I hardly think smelling apples is worthy of note, ma’am,” said Caturanga, pushing his glasses up his nose. “A fellow just upstairs on the street had a few ripe bushels with him and you could have easily purchased one for the staff here and brought it down.”_

_“A clever conjecture, Mr. Caturanga, but no, our few agents are not so fond of apples as to plow through a whole bushel between the four of us. Five now, I suppose, if you’ll accept the job.”_

_“Just Caturanga, if you please. I still fail to see why the apples are important.”_

_“Well then, Just Caturanga, if it be of interest to you and if indeed you should accept my terms of employ, it is worthy of note because the Warehouse is already fond of you. Not everyone who sets foot in this place is given so precise a waft of a perfectly ripe autumn orchard.” She adjusted her vest and high collar, and with a foreign sort of grace all her own, plopped down into her chair._

_This woman was a puzzle and Caturanga was most interested in solving her mysteries. She had a very masculine air and appearance, though not unbecoming of specifically her, with her tightly drawn bun and curls. No, she was as she should be, which was out of place in polite society where she would have to elbow to make room for herself, but perfectly at home among the oddities shelved around her. He half suspected that despite her long skirt she would prop her booted feet on a corner of the desk, but to his slight disappointment she did not and instead steepled her long fingertips together, rested her elbows on the edge of the desk, and leaned in, studying him with dark eyes just as he examined her. She broke eye contact to check her pocket watch, having won the silent contest by her own rule: this was her domain and she was not intimidated by the cleverest young man in the city because she knew she was also clever enough to match him, at least until he got his feet in the Warehouse, at which point he would be devoted to her or the cause or whatever else and be of no threat. She made a small, not grumpy noise and looked at him again._

_“We can well stare at each other all day, Mr. Caturanga,” she began._

_“Just Caturanga, please.”_

_She carried on without so much as a pause. “Caturanga, then, but that will not progress your decision, nor the action I will need to take, whatever that may be. If you decide to stay, there will be work to be done; should you reject the offer, I will need to wipe your memory of this place and send you on your way back to the university that has thrown you out for being too intelligent for your own good. Either decision makes no difference to me, but you ought to make it soon.”_

_So that was it. Despite her severity in presence and demeanor, Caturanga sensed a natural warmth and charisma underneath: she understood that her announced indifference on his decision would in fact nudge him further toward—_

_“I accept.”_

_“Good, we can get started, then. Welcome to Warehouse 12, Caturanga, I suspect we’ll have some grand romps with endless wonder at our heels.” She closed the pocket watch with a small click and rose to sweep across the floor to the archway leading to the main floor. “Stay close, now, it’s much bigger than you think.”_

_He gave a wider, cheeky schoolboy grin. “I would be delighted, though I don’t suppose with your guidance that I shall ever be lost, Miss Lister.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CUE THE JAUNTY PIANO.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for showing up in quite a lot of support for the first <24 hours! Be kind to yourselves and please keep the comments rolling! I do love the feedback :)


	3. Chapter 3

Myka let a yawn slip as they pulled into the B&B. In the backseat, Claudia stirred, and in the front, Helena stretched her stiff arms in an almost doglike way.

“Home sweet home,” Helena quipped, cracking her neck. She stifled her own yawn.

Myka scowled, pretending to check her phone. Against her better judgment, she had brought H.G. Wells back to the Warehouse. The endless wonder never ceased, she thought wryly.

_“Let’s go already, we’re running out of time. H.G. needs us,” said Claudia, dropping her loaded backpack onto the breakfast table with an unceremonious bang._

_“She’s not a dog that needs to be let outside, Claudia, she’s H.G. Wells,” said Artie. “No offense,” he addressed Trailer, who huffed and placed his snout on his paws. “She can handle herself on a low-level whammy like this.”_

_“And if your so-called ‘low-level whammy’ turns a frakking horde of women violent? This can’t wait, Artie,” Claudia protested._

_“Five minutes,” Artie scoffed. “She can wait five more minutes.”_

_“If she doesn’t decide to turn it into an orgy, she’s missing out,” said Pete through a spoonful of peanut butter. Claudia and Artie looked at him. “What? A smart player would be taking advantage of this! Fifty horny women right outside—“ Myka whacked him sharply on the head._

_“That’s not her style, Pete, she prefers the…the hunt of monogamy,” said Myka, frowning._

_“Because she was oh-so-cunning with you,” Pete said through a peanut-buttery grin, earning himself another sharp blow. “Ow! Kidding, kidding. Jeez, Mykes…” He rubbed the top of his head, scrunching one eye._

_“Children!” interjected Artie. “She must be desperate; she knows how to neutralize artifacts—we equipped her on the off chance she ran into one. This is the first contact H.G. has made since—“_

_“Not the first,” Claudia interrupted. They all looked at her. “Something felt off about those anonymous calls, you guys. Tell me I wasn’t the only one who saw that.” They met her with puzzled frowns. “Hello, we’re a top-secret facility with limited people assets who are only allowed to tell one person about their jobs. We don’t _get_anonymous calls.”_

_Myka’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack for a moment before she said, “Sam Adams’ tap. That was her.”_

_“And the urn in Budapest. I could go on.” Claudia sounded vaguely annoyed. “I traced the calls and scanned traffic cams. You’re right, Myka, it _was_her.” Claudia produced a stack of enhanced printer paper photos. On the topmost, Helena was walking away, casting a look over her shoulder. To her dismay, Myka’s stomach clenched. She thought she had that reaction locked down…_

_Artie grumbled, rubbing his chin. “If she’s this easy to track, she can’t want to be too far undercover. Anonymous,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t have anything to gain from summoning us wherever she is, though—“_

_“She doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore,” said Myka quickly._

_“So it would seem,” said Pete, “Unless she’s reconsidered another ice age. You never know.” He scooped another spoonful from his jar. “She might have saved us in another timeline, but she’s still Lady Cuckoo.” He said this last with a note of admiring affection._

_“She spent enough time in Regent limbo, she wouldn’t try that again,” Claudia offered. Myka shot her a grateful glance. “I think she’s just a little lost. The quiet life didn’t work for her and rebound lady—Giselle?—didn’t work out in a slightly less quiet life so she’s drifting.” Pete kept his gaze on his Jif. Artie’s brow furrowed. Myka refused to look at anything but the floor. “She’s coming back to the only thing that makes sense.” _Us_, thought Myka. “The Warehouse,” said Claudia. There was more silence for a moment._

_“It’s settled, then,” said Artie finally. Myka looked at him, apprehension now starting to swirl in her stomach like a mild hangover. “Do your best to bring her back. She’s earned a break from the mundane world, don’t you think?”_

Myka set her jaw and forced her door open a little too firmly: she stumbled, but caught her feet before she fell. Straightening, she saw Helena exit the vehicle in her smooth manner, as though she were still a Victorian lady helping herself down from a carriage. She’s not too far removed from that, though, Myka reminded herself. Helena walked around the car to the trunk to retrieve her bag, thrusting the door back into place once the roller hit the pavement. Claudia slouched into the B&B’s lamplight, cradling her laptop like a teddy bear. She absently patted Helena’s shoulder, mumbled something about see you in the morning, and plodded up to her room.

“Will it be the same arrangements, then?” Helena asked and Myka’s head whipped around so fast, she heard her own vertebrae pop. Oh. She meant separate rooms, not…

“Yeah, Abigail made up your old room,” Myka affirmed, rubbing the tense spot between her neck and her shoulder. In another time, Helena would have glided over to massage it for her. They crept into the dark B&B, past the breakfast table where many morning meetings occurred, into the lower hall, both skipped the creaky bottom stair, and climbed. Helena’s old room had been adjacent to Myka’s, closer to the stairs by a few feet, but just a bit further from the bathroom.

“Same as it ever was,” said Helena, and Myka couldn’t tell if she had made an intentional Talking Heads reference, but supposed it didn’t matter if she called it out since Pete was snoring in his room a little ways down. The inventor grasped the handle, the door swung slowly inward, and Helena was correct. Helena was very often so.

The room had been left intact upon her departure, its likeness stored in the Warehouse with the other preserved rooms of fallen and disappeared agents. Like Myka, Helena had stocked her room with amply available first editions—many of her own—supplied by the Warehouse. No fewer than three large mahogany bookshelves lined the walls around her bed, stuffed as well with notes and sketches of future inventions. Helena had left a few drawings of flying machine blueprints tacked to the bulletin board above her desk. Myka suppressed a small smile; all the wonders of the modern age and Helena was still plotting for flight. It was adorable, really—but she shouldn’t think of her that way. This was _H.G. Wells_, dignified, cocky, gallant H.G. Wells, brilliant, beautiful, se—no. No, she definitely should not entertain that avenue of thought. Helena had left. Helena had made her choice. Helena shacked up with Nate because she wanted his ordinary life and loved his remarkable daughter. Helena had _wanted_to be Emily Lake. And she promised to call, before Myka drove away in shreds. And then she never did.

As if she sensed Myka’s thoughts, Helena’s low voice in the dark said, “I came back.” It sounded like she meant more: _you demanded I return, here I am. Is that enough? _But you left us. You left _me_. Myka started the long five feet to her own door when soft, strong fingers caught her hand.

“Come to bed,” came Helena’s voice again, between a wild ask and a soft command.

Myka meant to give another spine-melting glare, but what her face configured into probably looked more like pathetic desperation. She whispered, “You can’t seriously be asking that. After three years.” Helena relinquished her grasp.

An involuntary shiver started at where Helena had touched her and traveled up her arms, across her clavicle, into her throat. Myka swallowed hard. She missed the familiarity of _touch_, falling asleep cradled by or cradling another person, the idle fingertip strokes over her ribs and back, resting her head in the crook of Helena’s neck. She missed the_safety_of touch. Myka wanted to be angry that she felt it was missing in the first place.

“At least… let me help you sleep,” Helena murmured to the floor, peeking up through her eyelashes. Myka stared and Helena fumbled. “You said you haven’t slept well since… I thought…” It was late as to border on early, and Myka could tell that Helena was feeling more honest with fatigue, with the night air, with whatever it was that made humans more open to sharing when awake past a decent hour.

Putting Helena back in the Regent’s projector ball had been easier. Handing her over to the Regents after Yellowstone had been easier. Myka’s chest constricted and she was glad they hadn’t turned on any lights. She turned back to Helena and the tiniest gasp escaped her. The lamp outside the upstairs hall window provided just enough illumination to Helena’s face. Her brown eyes were softly asking, half apologetic, swimming with three years of sadness and guilt. _Come to bed. Please. Let me fix this._Myka wanted to say yes. She wanted to undress and slide between Helena’s sheets and pass out, to wake up late in Helena’s arms. There would be time in the morning to ask where she went, what she did after Nate and Adelaide and Giselle, there would be time to assess where they went wrong after Walter Sykes and why she ever left after the near-destruction of the Warehouse. But that couldn’t be, not now.

She didn’t want to, but Myka shuffled further away, shaking her head slightly, travel-flattened curls swaying. You left. You can’t ask me like this.

Helena bowed her head and backed her bag and then herself into the room. “Until the morning, then, darling.”

“Good night, Helena,” Myka said to the door.

\--

Stupid, that was stupid, Wells. Exhaling a long breath, Helena pressed her forehead and palms against the door. You bollocksed that one, didn’t you? ‘Come to bed,’ what did you expect after all this time? Myka would be wary, she would follow the rules until they didn’t suit her and engaging with Helena like that… that was against her self-imposed rules, or Helena didn’t know Myka. Stupid, it was all so stupid: returning to Univille, the artifact, the phone call, Halifax, asking Myka to spend the night, even if the ask had been chaste in Helena’s head. Properly bollocksed, all of it.

_But I didn’t bollocks this._Helena pulled the static bag with her volume of Anne Lister’s diary from under her jacket. She’d probably pay for lifting it from Claudia’s backpack on the plane, but under the right circumstances, it was no threat... She passed her bed to the desk and switched on the gooseneck lamp. From a drawer, she procured a transparent purple disc, which she affixed to the lamp, casting a pale lavender circle onto the wood. Prior to her semi-permanent departure, Helena and Claudia had manufactured transportable Ovoid Quarantine light filters out of glass and goo, which allowed them to study artifacts with more mobility, even on the rare days when Artie allowed them to “work from home.” Just to be safe, on went a pair of gloves, and she dumped out the notebook.

It was a small enough cracked leather-bound tome to fit into a large pocket or nondescript bag, paper a little yellowed and rumpled, as though it had been dropped into the edge of a puddle and left to dry, but otherwise well-preserved. On the good grace of habit, Helena had marked her spot with a folded receipt. Under the newly neutralizing light, she flipped it open and skimmed her fingertip down the page of cramped Greek letters and algebraic nonsense. It took a moment to recall her decryption method, sleep deprived as she was, but soon enough she was up Miss Walker’s skirt again (she smiled a little), and… yes, there. The upside-down, miniscule number twelve between two lines about between Ann’s legs.

There could be no mistake: Helena turned the book over, flipped ahead and, without decrypting this time, there was the number twelve again. And…_Good lord_. Helena was sure she had gone cross-eyed, but she picked out a snatch of a phrase going vertically and upside-down from that twelve: _Caturanga, that young scoundrel_. She blinked several times. That couldn’t be right.

Muffled through the wall, she was interrupted by Myka saying wearily, “Hey, Pete,” to which Helena swiveled her head sharply. Surely that wasn’t—and then she heard the squeak of metal against metal and the throaty chuckling of Pete the ferret. Of course. Helena relaxed back into reading.

\--

_London, 1833, Winter_

_“You needn’t try to read over my shoulder, Agent Caturanga, you can’t decipher everything from there.” Anne didn’t look up from her writing as she flourished an omega._

_“Oh, certainly not, Miss Lister,” said Caturanga, rocking onto his toes. “Though I will be so bold as to ask when you will be recruiting your Miss Walker to our ranks?” The scratching fountain pen stopped. “She seems a most apt young lady to capture your attention so.”_

_Anne slowly placed her pen on her desk and closed the notebook between her palms, her face drawn and white. She hadn’t ever mentioned Ann to Caturanga, or to anyone in the Warehouse. “Don’t you have inventory to attend, _Mr._Caturanga?” she said through her teeth, the muscles in her jaw working._

_He flushed a little and slinked toward the door. In the archway, he said, “If Dr. Belcombe is indeed suggesting travel for her health, an intelligent young woman such as herself could reap more than—“_

_“Out,” Anne snapped, chucking the pen at him. It bounced off his already balding head as he booked a hasty retreat to the Warehouse floor. Cheeky young man. Too clever and honest for his own good. Anne only half-regretted hiring him; no one had ever deciphered her code to comprehend what she had written, _privately_, let alone over her shoulder like that. But then, he was brilliant and their artifact capture rate had skyrocketed since his apprenticeship. He admired his mentor; that was evident in his coy playing of teacher’s pet and, more annoyingly, in his offering of advice on her personal matters which she hadn’t shared in the first place. He had been right about the coal pits, though: with the right connections to the rail, the first month of profits from a reopened Listerwick alone would keep Shibden running for a year._

_But bringing Ann to the Warehouse was out of the question. It was too dangerous, too intense, too… unprofessional. She was allowed to share the secret with one unaffiliated person, but she had always imagined that One would be her wife. And with Ann’s bungle of a response to her second proposal… of all things, a game of chance? And her soft refusal at the third… Anne rubbed circles into the corners of her eyelids. Ann was in Scotland, with family, hopefully safe from all this nonsense with artifacts and misguided people who used them. Overbearing family after her fortune seemed tame compared with Napoleon’s saber…_

_To Anne’s right, a merry fire crackled in the hearth, illuminating wall-length shelves full of rolled up maps, encyclopedias, history texts, and first edition novels. The flue fed up through a network of multiple wide pipes that let out over inhabited buildings at least three blocks away—her own idea in the Warehouse’s relocation from Russia. The firelight gleamed against the silk of her top hat, which sat on a stack of files she had yet to approve and log, as much as she wanted to burn them. What was the use of files on missing artifacts when they were deemed irretrievable and none of the damned trinkets could transport her directly to Ann in Scotland without turning her into a raving lunatic? Anne snatched up her journal and threw it into an open drawer; she locked it and leaned over the desk, propped on her hands and panting._

_A mechanical noise called her back to reality. To her left, a tabletop machine began to whir and print on a narrow curl of parchment, puffing and chugging as it did. When it pinged, she stretched the paper between deft fingers and read with speed._

_“On second thought, Agent Caturanga, pack your bags and give your inventory lists to Eugénie,” she called. “We depart for Denmark in the morning.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a fluffy, all Gentleman Jack-set chapter. 
> 
> I like to imagine the theme playing over the last two paragraphs.

_Halifax, Summer, 1834_

_The bustle in Sibden Hall died down over the course of a few hours. Ann had finished directing James as to where to deposit her trunks and boxes, James had been loaned servants’ quarters in an outbuilding, and luncheon would be served in half an hour._

_“Half an hour!” Marian repeated to their retreating backs as her sisters raced up the stairs to Anne’s—their—room. She smiled to herself; finally, _finally_, Anne would settle. Though she didn’t expect that Anne would ever forego her love of travel, not even for Miss Walker. Always had to be barreling into one foreign social circle or another with the force of a speeding carriage, all the while rushing back home to manage the farm and tenants and rents before waltzing right back out with her brand of determined joie de vivre. Ann, it seemed, was perfectly content to barrel right along with Anne, and had taken to their permanent companionship with her own quiet strength, all the while supporting Marian’s campaigns for homestead stability with success that Marian herself had never enjoyed with her elder sister. Perhaps Miss Walker had strengthened her spine on their brief honeymoon to York; unlike the shy girl she had met after the carriage accident, Marian saw Ann brimming with energy as she kept step with Anne in all ways. To her own chagrin, however, Marian didn’t suspect Anne and Ann would be keen on taking lunch exactly on the hour this time. Still, she had to admit that married life suited them both._

_Ann bounced backward onto the bed, pulling Anne by the hand down to her mouth. They kissed fervently, finally, away from prying eyes, in a home that was truly theirs, where they could exist without judgment or inconveniently timed neighbor-cousins. Skirts and troublesome petticoats shifted aside, hands roamed up slender white legs and between. It was a blastedly hot summer, as Anne had so crudely said on their venture back from York, but the weather neither discouraged nor deterred them from seeking the heat of lovemaking in any stage of dress. On their mad dash upstairs, boots thundering over Ann’s blissful giggles, they had barely heard Marian’s admonition about lunch—but had comprehended enough to keep skirts and corsets on. Nonetheless, when it was over and tensions released, they lay, panting, and Anne tenderly kissed Ann’s sweaty forehead. _

_They had gotten good at keeping their hair in place whenever they found themselves taking a quick reprieve from polite society, though it wouldn’t have mattered here, not today. Ann nuzzled into Anne’s neck with a soft sigh, just a little frustrated that the high collar kept her from the skin underneath. She resolved to fix that later in the evening. Anne was getting better at stifling the habit, but checked her pocket watch anyway. Five past twelve. She could hear the chink of cutlery and lunch being passed around the dining table. Ann made a lazy grab for the watch, snapping it shut through Anne’s fingers._

_“What have I told you about bringing your watch to bed?” she yawned, sliding their hands and the offending instrument into Anne’s pocket. She stroked the side of Anne’s thumb on her way back out._

_Anne craned to look down at her wife, referring to her by her at-home-only married name. “Why, Mrs. Lister, would you admit to being jealous of a simple timepiece?” (Half a lie; the watch was anything but simple.)_

_“Not at all, Mrs. Walker,” said Ann, grinning as she pulled away from Anne’s attempted kiss, teasing. Her nose wrinkled with mischief. “Though I think that you have me now, you ought to focus on tasks at hand rather than what you’ll be doing when you're thoroughly exhausted of me. There’s no schedule right now, is there?”_

_Anne made frank eye contact with her wife, eyebrows raised. There was always a schedule; Ann knew that, as much as she fought it. And as it stood, they were seven minutes behind Anne’s intention to tell Ann about Warehouse Twelve. They would be precisely twenty-two minutes late to luncheon at this rate, and this conversation would require delicacy; Ann’s nerves were slowly becoming less susceptible to fraying, but still... to understate, this was rather a little out of the ordinary spousal secrets._

_“My darling Ann,” she began magnanimously, and cleared her throat. Ann’s eyes adopted their curious blue wideness. “Of all the wonderful things I have seen in this world…” Her mouth ran dry. “You are the most remarkable.”_

_Verging on blissful ignorance, but still striving to understand, Ann gave a quiet laugh. Her ringlets, still tightly wound, sprung. “You always had a way with words,” she said. “And I should hope you’ll continue to show me the wonders of your world. You still need to take me to Rome and Paris and all the rest.”_

_“About that,” Anne added slowly. She pulled them up into a sitting position, folding Ann’s hands in her own. “What if I told you there’s more wonderment in the world than even Paris and Rome?” Ann’s eyebrows twitched together for a moment, puzzled. Anne fished for an example. “What if I told you… more about my time with Monsieur Cuvier? About my relationship to Dr. Belcombe?”_

_“Oh, Anne, you’re not saying you—with them?” Ann’s upper lip curled, a facsimile of disgust._

_“Definitely not that,” said Anne quickly. “The thing is, my darling, I couldn’t be wholly forthcoming with you about the nature of my travels. That is, it wasn’t allowed.” Ann’s lips pursed with suspicion. Best to alleviate that. “I travel for pleasure, yes, but also for… work.”_

_Ann’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of work could possibly have called you to Denmark in the middle of winter?”_

_“The…” She hesitated, corners of her mouth tugging further apart. “Wondrous kind.”_

_“The wondrous kind.” Ann seemed torn between amusement and frustration, though this was not uncommon between them. Anne tenderly smoothed the rumples that grew on Ann’s forehead with her thumb._

_“What if I told you I worked for a very secret organization that keeps humanity safe from itself, but I could only ever tell one person in my entire life?”_

_“Are you?” asked Ann shortly, raising her eyebrows and re-rumpling her forehead. “Are you telling me you work for a very secret organization like that?”_

_Anne steadily held Ann’s incredulous gaze. So much for delicacy. “I… Yes, Ann. Yes, I am.”_

_She saw a flash of the old anxiety across Ann’s face, that gobsmacked sort of fear from those nightmare-plagued nights before Scotland... and it was gone as Ann mastered it, forcing herself to appear calm, which Anne took as her cue to press onward._

_“There’s a magnificent underground warehouse in London,” she said, re-twining her fingers with Ann’s and tracing her wife’s face with the other hand. “State-of-the-art, which houses all the small and not-so-small wonders of the world. At least, all those artifacts we can track down and bring back.” She procured her pocket watch again, opening the cover for Ann to see. The hands now showed twelve fifteen. She pressed a button at the top, and the hands twirled counterclockwise, first convening at the twelve, splitting apart so the hour hand pointed to six, then returning to the proper time. Ann shook her head, still more bemused. “It keeps track of the goings on at the Warehouse for me—if the hands spin all the way round, I am to return to London immediately to attend the latest, ah, curiosity.”_

_“So, what did six o’clock mean?” Ann was still apprehensive, her jaw just jutting outward with the question._

_“All is apparently well,” said Anne blithely. Ann’s gaze turned a little accusatory. “I wanted to tell you sooner, as soon as you accepted my proposal, I swear,” she added. “But it wasn’t for me to decide at that time.” The corner of Ann’s mouth twitched. “Dr. Belcombe and a rather intrepid student of mine advised me to wait until we were settled.”_

_“And what does Dr. Belcombe have to do with any of it?”_

_Anne rubbed her chin. She knew there would be questions, and to be frank, she was surprised Ann hadn’t run away already. She would have to tell Ann everything, even about the Regents. “He is still a doctor as you know him, but also rather a specialist in other areas, for our protection.”_

_“He specializes in this wonderment,” said Ann. Her eyes grew distant and in them, Anne could see her drifting away skyward._

_Anne pulled her back to earth. “Without going into too much detail because even I don’t know the true depth of his specialties, yes.”_

_They didn’t speak for several long moments. Anne thought she was about to be sick with the tension. Ann fiddled with a corner of her skirt. Then—_

_“Show me.”_

_Anne blinked. “I ca—what?”_

_Ann’s face settled into her newfound, bright-eyed determination, brows set, the same soft-and-fierce look she had on their wedding night. “You promised to take me abroad. It all fits, then.” She nodded once, firmly, the lifted her chin. “Show me your Warehouse and your curiosities. I want to know.” Anne opened her mouth, but Ann covered it with the tips of her fingers. “If it really is dangerous, I want to go with you. I won’t be left behind to waffle and worry what ill-intentioned wonderment has befallen you when you fail to write.”_

_Anne’s mouth hung open in the beginning of a smile. So Caturanga had been right; she owed him at least ten pounds. The wonders never ceased. She seized Ann’s face between her hands and kissed her wife, hard. Hang luncheon, hang the coal pits, hang Shibden. Let Marian have the whole estate to whatever end, ruinous or otherwise. The world, the Warehouse, the wonders and the thrill of hunting them, would be theirs. Together. Anne kept hold of Ann’s face and looked into her shining eyes. This was right. _

_Laid forgotten on the bed, the watch showed twenty-two past twelve._

_Two weeks later, she escorted her wife through the winding underground tunnels and held the office door open for her, tipping her hat jauntily with her walking stick as she made eye contact with no one in particular. Seriously, but with pomp, Anne said, “Welcome to Warehouse Twelve, Agent Walker.”_

_Ann seemed a little disappointed at first, but as she rotated on her spot on the rug just past the threshold, her eyes began to sparkle and her face opened into a wide smile as she took in the whirring instruments, the clutter of maps and books and shelves and stray (low-hazard) artifacts. She asked only, “Does it always smell like apples?”_


	5. Chapter 5

Helena woke herself by smacking her head on the hot lamp, which toppled to the floor with a crash, scattering purple and clear glass everywhere. She had fallen asleep on top of Anne Lister’s diary, which had left a book-sized impression on her cheek. The last words she remembered were _Not two months in and Ann is flourishing at the Warehouse. I could never have suspected that my demure little wife would take so well to sleuthing and throwing me bodily across a room in a sparring bout. _Helena rubbed her bloodshot eyes, finding the indent in her skin, and, realizing that the diary was no longer under the neutralizing light, scrambled for the folded static bag. Thankfully, it did not spark and none of the B&B residents were banging down her door for affection.

“Ow.” She screwed up her face, rubbing the top of her head, searching for a bump. The burgeoning headache she felt had nothing to do with the lamp and more to do with sleep deprivation and, she judged, was nothing a strong cup of tea, a shower, and a change of clothes couldn’t fix. Gingerly, she crept around the shards of glass; grateful she hadn’t taken off her boots. The tinier pieces crunched under her feet as she approached the closet for a broom (other late nights when she had stayed up tinkering left shreds of metal and other bits on the floor, for which Leena had assigned Helena her own broom and dustpan).

She had just begun to sweep when she heard the urgent knock. “H.G.? Are you okay?” Myka. Helena crossed the room, stepping over her broken glass floor mosaic and opened her door to pajama-bottom-and-t-shirt-barefoot Myka. Pete the ferret was draped over her arm like a hand towel, his long, fuzzy bottom swinging freely. He sniffed at Helena, tittering. Myka rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “I heard a crash.”

Helena adjusted her position in the doorway a little too late. Myka spotted the static bag. And then the bicolored glass on the floor. Helena could see the gears working in Myka’s head, if a little slower first thing in the morning. Quickly, Helena stepped around the edge of the door and pulled it shut behind her. “Myka, I can explain.”

“Make it a good one, Helena,” was all Myka said in response, exasperated. Was this the new nature of their relationship, Helena wondered, Myka demanding good explanations or else? She inhaled.

“Anne Lister was rather cleverer than we first thought.” Myka blinked. “Hard to comprehend, yes, she was singular in her intelligence and her dedication to her code rivals that of a cloistered monk.” Myka blinked again, starting to frown, so Helena plowed on. “When I first acquired the volume we bagged—“

“Claudia bagged,” said Myka.

“—I didn’t realize that there was a _secondary _level to the code hinging on the intentional inclusion of the number twelve in the most surreptitious places.” Helena waved her hands before her to emphasize, her sentences growing faster. Myka frowned, though with less disapproval and more puzzlement, and tilted her head. Helena finished dramatically, “I decrypted the secondary code and found something of utmost import: _Anne Lister was a Warehouse agent._”

Myka regarded Helena coolly. Falling asleep at the desk had done nothing to decrease the appearance of madness that had seemed to overcome her. Helena was still wearing her clothes from last night: the normally suave blouse had come untucked under the now-unbuttoned vest and sported a large diagonal crease from H.G.’s shoulder to her hip. Her normally smooth hair frizzed on top and her brown eyes, though darkened underneath, were bright and wild. And, of course, there was the impression of a book corner on her cheek. Maybe it was a little easier to resist Helena when she looked the part of the mad inventor of time travel instead of the well-groomed public-faced writer who had charmed half of London in her day. Myka scratched the top of Pete’s head when the ferret started to gently nibble her fingers and did not tenderly say that she in fact found Helena in disarray to be endearing. The inventor’s disheveled state reminded her of certain morning-afters, evenings spent frantically re-dressing (and sometimes ending up in each other’s shirts), nights just as frantically undressing…

Helena deflated a little when Myka said nothing and merely yawned.

“Well?” she pushed, “What d’you think?”

“I think,” said Myka, letting Pete lick her hand (Helena reminded herself that it was ridiculous to be jealous of a pet, even if it was named for Lattimer). “I think it’s too early for this conversation without coffee.” Myka carried Pete back down the hall.

“If you call ten in the morning early,” Helena called after her. She muffled her own yawn.

“We got in after five,” Myka retorted, and closed her door.

At the breakfast table, Helena nibbled toast and silently blessed Abigail for buying marmalade. No one else in the house liked it; Pete claimed it tasted bitter, while Myka wasn’t much of a jam on toast person, and Claudia preferred cereal anyway. Artie just drank coffee in the morning, occasionally, “begrudgingly,” being convinced to take a pastry. Helena traced a fingertip around the rim of her mug (Lady Grey rather than Earl, since it complemented the toast so well), half wishing it were a wine glass so she could strike a note and recapture Myka’s attention. Myka herself sat across from Helena, bent over the Anne Lister files. All twenty-seven volumes of the diary—including Helena’s independent study—were stacked in individual static bags for transport to the Warehouse.

“I still think you should let me keep them here,” Helena muttered. Myka looked up only to shoot her a warning glance. Helena, not intimidated, held her gaze. “The Ovoid Quarantine filter more than neutralized the diary and I hadn’t finished decrypt—“

“Claudia can scan these through a computer with your decryption,” said Myka, returning to paperwork with a sip of coffee, “In a fraction of the time it’ll take you to do it by hand.”

Helena frowned. “There’s a certain satisfaction in doing things the _old fashioned _way,” she said grumpily.

“And how much time will four million words even take to read?” A bit rich coming from you, Myka.

“Perhaps a lady likes to feel smart.”

“Perhaps a lady is stalling.”

Helena fidgeted with her locket. Myka wasn’t wrong. Study of the diaries in the B&B meant Helena could hide in her room and not have to face Pete and Artie. Or the Warehouse. She swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm tea.

“Even if Claudia can decrypt some six hundred sixty-thousand encoded words in such a short time, it all still must be read for Warehouse 12 context,” Helena tried again.

“Textual analysis is a thing, you know,” said Myka airily. “Computers do that now.”

“Tell me, darling, was it in your job description to spoil the fun in everything?” Helena drawled, stirring with a finger, slowly drawing it out and sucking the tea from it. She gave her best sultry eyes, lids lowered and eyebrows lifted.

“Only when Artie’s not around to do it for me.” Myka didn’t even look up to take the bait, but rather ignored Helena’s pointed flirtation, drained her coffee, scooped up the stack of books and files, and marched toward the door. “Finish up, we’re already late to debrief.”

Alone, Helena tipped the last of her cold tea down the drain and deposited the mug and her plate into the dishwasher. “’Computers do that now,’” she grumbled, waggling her head side to side. “Insulting.”

Pete greeted her at the end of the Umbilicus with a bear hug. “Hey, H.G., where have you been skulking? A secret lair, maybe? Did you ever find someone to twirl your mustache?” He of course meant this all in jest, but Helena felt another guilty stab. He had regularly brought up the “Lady Cuckoo” bit, even after Sykes. She supposed that nowadays it was his way of needling her in a way that seemed friendly, but never quite in a way the she knew for sure he was only, as Claudia said, “razzing” her.

“Prague,” she replied coolly, “among other places, though none of them with a professional mustache twirler for hire, I’m afraid. London, for a time. New York, Boston—“

“And Budapest,” said Pete, holding up a hand for a high five. “Great leads on those artifacts, Helena. Couldn’t have done it without you.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

Myka cleared her throat, pressing her lips together. Pete grimaced.

“Oh, right. I forgot we were supposed to be cold-shouldering you. Well, it’s too late now! Sorry, Mykes,” he added. Pete wrapped an arm around Helena’s shoulders and led her through to the office. Helena thought she heard an exasperated sigh behind them as she was ushered to a swivel chair opposite Artie and Claudia’s desks, where Myka deposited the diaries and files.

“Well, well, well, the prodigal returns,” said Artie in a low voice, strolling in from the map room, a stray Farnsworth tucked under his arm. He looked much the same, with his wild eyebrows and glasses, an open jacket over his beige shirt.

“Not entirely my idea,” said Helena, glancing ruefully at Myka, who leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“No, H.G., it wasn’t your idea because it was mine,” Artie said. “And I’ll thank you not to blame Myka or Claudia for dragging you here, they were acting on my orders.”

“I hadn’t realized you had gotten so fond of me since Magellan’s Astrolabe, Artie,” Helena quipped. Artie scowled darkly at the mention of the Astrolabe, but said nothing. “Where’s Agent Jinks? I don’t suppose he would like to add his opinions on how I am to be treated while I am under Warehouse arrest?”

“Agent Jinks is on assignment,” said Artie in his clipped manner. “Abigail wanted to try a field mission, so he took her with him to L.A. to sweep the blockbuster sets for anything remotely fudge-scented.”

“I still think you should have sent me on this one, Artie,” interjected Pete. “Babes and pop culture? That’s totally my jam.”

“Because we all know how well you do when you’re distracted,” said Myka, squeezing her temples with one hand.

“None of this explains why you had Myka and Claudia strong arm me back here, Artie,” said Helena over Myka.

Artie regarded her for a quizzical moment. “My directions to Myka and Claudia were to ‘do their best to bring you back,’ not to tie you up and throw you in a trunk as you seem to think in spite of the voluntary process of checking in to a flight.” He pointed a finger on “spite” to accentuate. “Does there have to be an ulterior motive? You’re an excellent agent, you were able to discreetly put the astrolabe back where it belonged, not to mention you have a wealth of artifact intel that may come in handy.” He leaned in close to Helena’s left ear. “And certain agents, despite their cold exteriors at the moment, did miss you.” He tilted his head almost imperceptibly toward Myka.

As if to assert its own opinions on her return, the Warehouse chose that moment to nearly topple Helena from her chair with a particularly strong waft of apples. “All right, all right,” she said to no one in particular, and to everyone in the room, including the room. “At worst, this is only a temporary residence and I’ll be on my way again after I’ve finished reading Anne Lister’s diary. At best, you get me back on your roster. Happy?”

“Very,” said Artie. He slid the spare Farnsworth onto her lap. “Welcome back, Agent Wells.”

\--

_“Again,” said Ann, like a small child asking for another turn on a pony. Anne picked herself up from the mat with a groan. Hand-to-hand combat was _not_getting easier with age, not that she was old, but she wasn’t exactly in her twenties, either. Ann, in spite of certain reservations she might have had in public, was in private picking up the particulars of redirecting an opponent’s force with an alarming speed. Still, Anne had to admit her wife looked rather dashing in trousers and a plain white shirt that was growing more transparent with every enthusiastic bout. Instead of a prim bun and ringlets, Ann’s long blonde hair was tied up in a single plait, which grew more frayed as the training wore on._

_“Come on, Anne,” Ann begged, “One more go?” _

_Who was she to decline? Anne drew herself up to her full height and then bent her knees into a predatory stance, hands held wide as though to make a grab. She advanced quickly, quicker than before, and pinned Ann’s arms to her sides, forcing her to the edge of the ring. Ann dug in her heels, allowing the force between their bodies to build, when she suddenly released the tension, sidestepping Anne’s careening torso, freeing her arms as Anne stumbled, sweeping Anne’s shoulders to one side. Anne, of course, thoroughly distracted at having just had her face buried in Ann’s bosom, landed face-first into a support pole. Spots danced in her vision and she couldn’t tell if the metallic ringing in her ears was echoing from the pole or in her own head._

_Ann clapped both hands over her mouth. “Are you all right?” she breathed. “I didn’t realize it was right—oh, Anne, I’m so sorry.”_

_Bless her, thought Anne, stirring feebly in an attempt to roll over, she still has that gentle spirit. She felt a trickle over her right eye and in a daze, put her hand up to wipe it away. Her fingers came back scarlet and Ann had rushed over to support her into a half-sitting position. _

_“Make sure you do that to the other fellow,” Anne managed breathlessly, her head starting to ache. Ann pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to stem the bleeding, pressing it to Anne’s hairline with shaking hands._

_“I’m really sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t realize you’d—fall into the post there and you—just—did and I—oh, Anne…” Ann cradled her wife’s head in her lap, tears starting to splash onto Anne’s cheeks from above. Anne could see the pink scar on Ann’s wrist from the… the _incident _in Scotland. Absently, she traced it with her forefinger. It was all she could manage for a few moments until the world stopped spinning and Ann had reduced her sobbing to a few sniffles._

_“I think sparring’s done for the day,” she said at last, propping herself on her elbows. She groaned again, but felt she had earned it this time. She cupped Ann’s cheek, giving her a weary, but still soft gaze. She wiped away a tear with her thumb. “You did nothing wrong, my darling. I don’t expect Christopher Rawson would expect you to slam him headlong into his own bank wall, but you’d certainly dash his brains out.” Her head was really starting to throb and she clenched her eyes shut, taking a moment to rest against Ann’s clavicle with a sigh._

_“I didn’t… I didn’t want to hurt you,” whispered Ann. She twined her arms around Anne, and Anne could tell that she had started to put on a little muscle: there was a little more firm edge to those soft white arms than she remembered…_

_“I was being stupid, Ann,” said Anne, lacing her fingers with Ann’s. “I should know better than to push full force like that so close to that side with the pole. You did well.” She looked up and Ann’s brow wrinkled with worry and Anne curled her fingers tighter. “This is a part of being a Warehouse agent, my love. What we do is dangerous and I couldn’t bear it if you went out into the world… unprepared.”_

_Ann sniffled again, nodded, and rested her cheek atop Anne’s head. “That was a very good redirect, wasn’t it?” she said after a moment, stroking the side of Anne’s wrist and thumb with her own._

_“You’ll have to try that one on young Caturanga, knock some brains out of him so maybe he won’t get to rest on being the smartest person in the Warehouse,” said Anne, which made Ann giggle. They fell silent yet again, Ann focusing on Anne’s cut forehead, which was no longer bleeding._

_Idly as she pulled the handkerchief free, she asked, “When do I get to pursue a curiosity?”_

_Anne hadn’t thought of that one. Maybe it was the knock on the head, maybe it was that she would have preferred to keep Ann shelving and inventorying and manning the fort, but she hadn’t got that far in her thoughts about bringing Ann into the field. “I suppose… you’ll hunt a curiosity when there is… a curiosity to hunt.” She meant this vaguely and nonchalantly, without saying she expected that Ann’s first mission would be a lower-level risk. She would make it so._

_As if on cue, Caturanga came sprinting round the corner, a scrap of parchment in his fist. “Miss Lister! Agent Walker, we have one!”_

_“And what is it we’ll be seeking, Mr. Caturanga?” asked Anne, rubbing her temple with her knuckles. He had a habit of walking (dashing) in on them._

_Unabashed by the scene set before him—he had rather got used to the Walker-Lister couple’s affections with each other—he waved the parchment under their noses. “Julius Caesar’s death shroud. Multiple victims of exactly twenty-three stab wounds each dotted about Italy. Rome, more specifically.”_

_Anne snatched the parchment from her senior apprentice, scanning the machine’s dotted script. “The shroud has been on our most wanted list for a time, hasn’t it? It will be the undoing of this perpetrator to kill so many times around the same city.” Ann lit up; Anne noticed. “No. You’re not doing this one. We’ll send someone more experienced. Out of the question,” she added firmly and Ann wilted._

_She did not, however, stay wilted for long. Anne could see the challenge rising in Ann’s eyes, the determined furrow of her brow, then— “You can’t keep me in training forever like a bird in a cage, it’s absurd. You invited me to this world of endless wonder but then keep me from seeing it?”_

_“I’m not willing to risk your life on a mission that could spell death and destruction to you. You’re still too new, too…”_

_“Too what?” Ann snapped down at her. “Too naïve? Too inexperienced? Then let me get some experience! Send me on this one, I’m ready to prove my use!” She straightened, intentionally not minding Anne’s head, which bumped painfully into her shoulder. The fire in Ann’s eyes burned with a ferocity Anne hadn’t yet seen. Perhaps throwing people around had awakened this fierceness in Ann, this unbridled spirit—but no, she had had that all along. It was the removal of the borders that contained those things, aided by the presence of the Warehouse that sparked this fire._

_“Please,” said Anne softly. “I’m not as strong as you think,” she said, recalling the near failure of the pit, the harried, disheveled reunion after Denmark. “I couldn’t bear it if something were…” she paused, unwilling to let the notion into the open air. “If something were to happen.” Ann’s fire dimmed somewhat as she was torn between wanting to please her wife and wanting to prove herself._

_“You can’t protect me forever, love,” she murmured. “You wanted to share the Warehouse with me, so let me share it, blessings _and_ burdens.”_

_Caturanga cleared his throat. “If I may be of assistance, Miss Lister, allow me to accompany Agent Walker on this foray. I am rather an expert on Caesar and have had the good fortune of learning some Italian and Latin at the university. Seeing as you are... indisposed…” He nodded to the growing purple lump above Anne’s eyebrow._

_Anne wanted to scowl and glare and carry on, but merely winced when she tried. Certainly she was not concussed, but the thought of traveling at this moment’s notice was, to say the least, unappealing. She finally managed to shoot Caturanga a flinty stare. “On your own head be it if she is in any way harmed, Caturanga,” she said, chewing each word before spitting it out._

_Ann kissed Anne’s bruise so softly, it might have been a butterfly coming to rest before flitting away. “Thank you,” whispered Ann, kissing her wife more fully on the mouth._

_Anne Lister was not one to plead, but her desperate eyes would have told another story as she looked at Ann and said, “Be safe.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo it's been a week, friends! I'm glad I managed to finish this chapter before the weekend hit. Feel free to smash that like button, leave a comment, bookmark or whatever you fancy, and remember to be kind to yourselves.


	6. Chapter 6

Myka was right. Of course Myka was right. It took Claudia about ten minutes to scan all the loose letters and papers and the remaining twenty-six volumes into the computer with the aid of Russell A. Kirsch’s scanner prototype, fifteen minutes to allow Helena to sourly type in a sample of both iterations of her decryptions into the system, and perhaps an hour for the computer to run the script and decode everything Anne Lister had ever written.

“Boom goes the dynamite,” said Claudia with satisfaction when the “Decryption Complete” message popped up on the screen. She pressed a key with bravado, stretching her free arm like she was in a Broadway show about hacking from a desk. “Annnnd running textual analysis scripts now. Give ‘em the ol’ razzle dazzle, baby,” she addressed the computer, patting the monitor. She rested her hands behind her head.

Inwardly, Helena groaned. What was the use of finding all those diaries if she couldn’t even read them herself? Myka could call her old-fashioned and Pete and Claudia could make all the age jokes they pleased, but technology had gone too far. She drew the line at preventing her from reading what was perhaps the most interesting piece of literature she had ever acquired. At any other time, she may have found textual analysis of qualitative data fascinating and would have invented her own codes of automated analysis befitting a university literature department. How Helena had wanted to _read _Anne Lister’s diary in full, to learn what Caturanga was like as a young man, and discover further secrets of Warehouse Twelve that even she had missed in her tenure as one of its last agents. Reading what little she had had felt like coming home.

As if she had read Helena’s mind, Claudia tossed a thick, leather-bound tome into Helena’s lap, which landed firmly. “Original _Encyclopedia Britannica_,” she said. “The first edition made its way to the Warehouse and spent so much time on the shelf, it can translate and replicate the contents of most books we own. Pretty handy when there’s something written in cuneiform, like one of Artie’s grocery lists.”

“We had this the whole time we were running around Warehouse Two, translating hieroglyphs?” Myka sounded indignant.

“I hadn’t re-shelved it at that time, Mykes. Inventory wasn’t built in a day,” said Claudia, “Besides, it strikes me as a newer, more inorganic artifact, one the Warehouse produced itself from it just being here all this time.”

“That explains why I didn’t use it at Warehouse Twelve, either,” Helena agreed, “What wonders it could have unlocked for us…” She flipped it open to a random page, and landed on… herself.

_H.G. Wells, British Author, best known for works of science fiction such as _The Time Machine _and _War of the Worlds. _Unbeknownst to most of society, H.G. Wells is a woman whose success in literature is often falsely attributed to her brother, Charles. She is also an inventor and current agent of Warehouse Thirteen, having been previously encased in bronze at Warehouse Twelve for artifact-related crimes against humanity—_

“Wiki yourself later, H.G.,” Claudia interrupted. A pair of purple gloves plopped onto the book. “The _Encyclopedia _also classifies whatever it touches. It’s mostly harmless in downsides: you might smell fudge, you might act like a know-it-all after contact, basically you turn into Myka.” Myka opened her mouth to retort but Claudia carried on. “It’s been approved for outside-Warehouse use. I’m good, but even textual analysis scripts won’t tell us everything Anne Lister has to say about Warehouse Twelve. We have someone better than a program.” She took the book from Helena, tapped it against the cover of one of the Lister volumes on the desk, and handed it back.

Myka edged closer to peer at the pages over Helena’s shoulder when she reopened the book. As promised, Anne Lister’s crabbed, cramped handwriting appeared on the page after a short classification:

_The diary of Anne Lister, Volume 13 of 27. Lister’s diary comprises twenty-six bound volumes and a twenty-seventh first volume of early letters and papers exchanged between herself and school friend Eliza Raine, beginning in 1806, which was foundational to her coding of the following twenty-six volumes. Beginning in March of 1829, this thirteenth volume details a portion of Lister’s life through September of 1830._

“1830,” Myka mused. “1830, that’s when Warehouse Twelve moved to London!”

“Yes, if you’d have let me, I could have told you that Miss Lister was not a mere Warehouse agent, but also foundational in its relocation to London,” said Helena grumpily, thumbing past an innocuous page about Anne’s breakfast on March eighteenth, 1829.

“I’m sorry, _Agent Wells_, was there something about setting artifacts loose to get my attention that _didn’t _work out for you?” Myka asked. That was enough. Helena closed the _Encyclopedia _with a snap and placed it on the desk with some force.

“Since you facilitated my return, I’d have thought you would have at least been grateful for my help, but it seems that all I’m good for is bossing around and a few jibes about past misdeeds. Was there something more for which you thought I’d have use, or are the days of Myka Bering’s _indignity _of loving another woman through?” Helena could feel her face and ears grow hotter, up through the roots of her hair. Myka’s expression emptied for a moment before flaring again, her hair seeming to grow bushier as the rest of her inflated for a fiery response. As was always her intended or unintended wont, Helena had hit the sorest nerve. She wasn’t sure which it was this time and pushed down the resulting guilty pang with her anger.

“Woof,” said Claudia before any further blows could be dealt. “Go ahead and fight but maybe not when I’m here.” She scooped up her laptop and scooted toward the Umbilicus, which opened with its familiar, cheery beep. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she added blandly, and the door sealed behind her, leaving Myka and Helena alone in roaring silence, the Warehouse empty of other agents. They stared each other down for what felt like hours, Helena daring Myka to take another stab, Myka simply furious.

“Did you have to bring that up?” asked Myka at last, fury dwindling. Her surprisingly soft voice sounded constricted, like her throat was tight, but her eyes—so _green _at this moment—showed no sparkle of tears.

“Did you have to fight me the whole way to now?” Helena replied, looking at the floor. The rug seemed a little more worn since she had last been an agent; there was a thinner patch where feet and swivel chair wheels passed most frequently. “I came back, after all.”

“I wanted that and I didn’t,” Myka admitted. “It was easiest to pretend you were never coming back. That you didn’t _want _to.”

“It was, for a time,” Helena agreed. “But the Warehouse, like most things I love, never truly left my mind.” She wrapped her fingers around her locket. Myka would not meet her eyes. They let the silence fill the room between them again. It was as if they were underwater, neither daring to breathe audibly over the muffled groans and whirs of the Warehouse floor beneath them.

“I wanted to say yes,” Myka whispered and Helena’s eyes shot up to meet her drawn face. “Everything always felt so sure with you.” She fiddled with her thumbnail. “I always make the decisions I feel are right, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right decision then. I thought of what my father would say—I can’t even tell my family who you really are! I wondered what would become of us, a secret marriage, our lives as agents, how that would affect the Warehouse… I couldn’t make sense of it.”

“I was the secret you didn’t want to keep,” said Helena in less of an accusation than it was a factual statement.

“That’s not fair,” said Myka. “I would never want you to be a secret to begin with—I just hadn’t gotten around to telling anyone we were together.” Anyone meaning her immediate family, thought Helena; the rest of the Warehouse team showed their approval in different ways. Pete, between strips of bacon, had a way of grinning knowingly at them over the breakfast table that had often made Myka blush. Claudia had of course blundered in on them on a few occasions, and took to quipping about them needing to get a room. Meanwhile, Artie acted like it wasn’t happening under his roof, but gave no dissent or signal that he disliked them together, which they took for approval. Leena made a point to tell them cheerily on most mornings after that their auras were positively beaming.

“I left because I thought you were ashamed of me,” said Helena. Myka turned away for a second. “I’m not the first woman to have her heart broken, but I recall your answer was along the lines of ‘it wouldn’t be dignified.’” Myka winced and Helena crossed her arms. “I don’t like to hide, but I am very good at running. And waiting, I suppose.” In this case, neither was mutually exclusive, she thought.

“You didn’t have to run.”

“I know how to make an entrance and when to take my leave, darling.” Helena pressed her lips together. “We needed to be apart after all that.”

“But you could have waited. It took a while, but I got there eventually.”

Helena tilted her head. Myka truly believed what she said; her eyebrows lifted slightly in an almost pleading expression, her jaw had softened, her hands had come unfastened from her hips and her arms hung limply at her sides. No more tense, sharp angles, no more hostility, just quiet pain.

Myka carried on. “When I thought I was ready for that step, you had Nate. And Adelaide.” Another guilty pang. Nate had felt safe, for a while, safe and ordinary. Intrepid Adelaide had eased the ache of the Christina-sized hole in Helena’s chest, if only a little. “And you fell off the map after that, but then Claudia said you were with someone named Giselle.”

“A drunk text to poor Claudia, if we’re honest,” said Helena. Myka’s mouth curved up in surprise. “Giselle was clever and bookish and kept up with my inventive whims, but she never met me past Emily Lake. After I told Adelaide my real name, Nate had questions about who I am that I couldn’t and wouldn’t answer, so I left. I was lonely; Giselle suited that need for companionship.” It wasn’t all a lie between them, either. Helena had truly liked Giselle and wide-eyed, overly honest Giselle had been enamored of Helena. If she weren’t so damned extraordinary, Helena knew she could have been happy with Giselle. Maybe she ought to go back into the Janus coin and give Emily Lake a real shot at a contented life. But of course, chewing her lower lip, here was Myka, more than comfortable with the extraordinary, fierce and capable and lovely and stubborn all in one.

“Would you have ever come back if you hadn’t needed me to save you?” Myka asked quietly.

“I suppose I might have done,” said Helena. The locket chain slithered around her index finger. “You’d have caught on to my artifact heists at some point. Claudia was right, Budapest was intentionally sloppy.” Myka breathed a laugh through her nose. “I got tired of running with no one to chase me, and I…” Helena’s chest expanded from inside her ribs. “You didn’t tell me about the cancer. When Claudia sent me the news after I told her about Giselle, I thought about calling it all off and running back to take care of you. I suppose cowardice kept me away.”

“A grand gesture, but it wasn’t that bad,” said Myka, a small smile touching her sad eyes. “As much as I missed you, you needed to live your life. I screwed up with us, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t make a good life without me.”

“It was an okay life,” said Helena. “But often lacking in wonder.” Not that there weren’t small wonders along the way. Adelaide’s science fair. Nate’s laugh. Giselle’s freckled body curled under the covers in the New York winter. The vast availability of chocolate and variety of teas in the modern age. As much as she appreciated those, none of them came close to filling the entire void left by Christina, and none of them was Myka.

“Plenty of wonder in supply here,” said Myka and they shared a small laugh. It almost hurt.

If she closed her eyes, Helena could and didn’t want to see her botched library proposal. The Warehouse had even egged her on with the strongest waft of apples it had ever mustered for her. She had knelt, of course, as tradition demanded; the ring was elegantly simple but none too large, as Myka had never cared for extravagance or expensive jewelry that would get in her way on the job. And Myka herself, for once at a loss for words, backed against a bookshelf for support, stammering a yes, a no, a well, an I… uh, and finally landing on an uncharacteristic flight from the room, leaving Helena to pick up her bewildered self from the floor. When pressed for an answer later, Myka’s still-spinning mind had produced “it wouldn’t be dignified, would it?” And that was all; Helena never made such gestures, silly as tradition made them, from anything but a sincere place. And to Helena’s dismay, she had done the thing properly and Myka could only communicate that their relationship was undignified, something to hide and be ashamed of. They fought that night at the B&B it was ugly. Helena didn’t care to remember more than that; it had all been enough that she packed up at four the next morning and hopped the soonest plane she could catch. She hadn’t cared where she was going and didn’t want to explain to the confused clerk at the desk. If she thought about it, she didn’t even remember where it had taken her.

“You wanted to say yes and yet,” said Helena.

Myka hugged herself, leaning backward against Claudia’s desk. “I’m not good at wanting, Helena. I’m not good at _letting _myself want.”

Helena didn’t feel herself closing the distance between them, but then she was half a foot away from Myka and saying in a low tone, “As my acquaintance Mr. Freud would say, ‘left unchecked, the id can turn ruinous.’ But kept in too tight of a cage…” She stopped a mere inch from Myka’s nose. “…it can spell as much disaster.” She let her eyes drop to Myka’s mouth: her lips had parted a little ways, two pink lovers pulled apart. Three years and it was still instinct to tease her so; three years and it was still Myka’s instinct to hold her ground and push back a little against this game. Helena backed up only enough to maintain the space between them as Myka moved away from from the desk. “I think,” Helena murmured, failing to smother her smirk, “if you gave in to your id just a little, you’d have admitted you missed me instead of doing your best to make me feel unwelcome.” Their feet traced something of a half circle, like cats sizing up each other before deciding whether to fight or flee.

Helena started to lean closer still, but Myka held a hand against her chest. Their eyes met, Helena’s eyelids lowered as she looked again, askance, at Myka’s mouth. Myka’s eyebrows pushed up and together, an apology and a plea in one.

“I can’t do this yet,” she murmured. Helena allowed Myka to gently push her backward so she could head toward the Warehouse floor.

“Are we at least at a truce, then?” Helena asked after her retreating back. She pulled her gloves back on and picked up the _Encyclopedia_.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” said Myka over her shoulder.

\--

_November 12, 1829_

_“What you’re asking, Steph, is, quite frankly, ludicrous. It’s madness. It… it can’t be _real_?” Dr. Belcombe said nothing and instead opted to raise his eyebrows and angle his head to one side. _What do you think? _his expression seemed to ask. “Good Lord. You’re actually serious.” Anne ran her palm down her face, stopping to rest her fingertips above her eyebrow. “And Mariana doesn’t know.”_

_“What Mariana and the rest of the world don’t know won’t hurt them. In this case, it’s better if they didn’t. The entire thing is rather a… _delicate_operation, if not always handled in the most delicate of ways.” Dr. Belcombe stood and crossed his sitting room to collect a small box from the mantle. A small fire radiated and popped in the hearth. “The Regents have requested that I find a suitable partner for the relocation of Warehouse Eleven from Moscow; one who is well-traveled and well-liked by polite society, but who is also a candidate who may hide in plain sight.”_

_“You know as well as I that half of ‘polite society’ appreciates my talents and the other half would prefer it if I hid in Shibden or abroad, never to be seen by their ilk again.” Anne reclined in her armchair. “Not exactly hiding in plain sight when one is an oddity such as I.”_

_“And I know very well that you are already adept at hiding in plain sight, Anne,” he countered. “Keen as you were and are with Mariana, it would seem that only those alleviated of their ignorance of you would be able to see just what you were up to, even if you are quite singular in person.”_

_“And you know I was fond of Russia when last I went.” Anne lifted an eyebrow as she lifted her cup from the tray on the small table and took a bracing sip of tea through taut lips._

_“Indeed. As it is nearly the end of the year and winter is very close at hand, I should admit to some tardiness in my approach. I shan’t beg your forgiveness, however, as this task is best not stated in writing that could be intercepted.” He opened the box, removed a small gold pin, and placed it on his lapel. Anne recognized the shape of a miniscule eye, Egyptian in origin, judging by the curl under the lower lid._

_“You are recruiting me to a life of tumult and secrecy, Steph.” She set her teacup back onto its saucer and returned the set to its tray. The crisp lines on her pointed face dug themselves deeper._

_“You are already living a life of tumult and secrecy, are you not?” Anne frowned. “The Warehouse has seen many wonderful artifacts and people, Anne. It does not judge its agents on the basis of their sex or preferences in whom to love. This is a chance for you to be yourself and learn a load that even a university library couldn’t provide.” He placed his thumbs in his jacket pockets. “Wouldn’t you of all people die for the chance of a peek at the most hidden secrets of the world?”_

_Slowly, Anne tugged at her black collar and said, “How far back does this Warehouse’s collection go?”_

_“Before even Ancient Greece.” This was an impressive surprise to her: her eyes widened for a fraction of a second and the tight bun dipped backward as she softly inclined her chin. Belcombe knew Ancient Greece was her favorite study. All the better if she was interested in the Warehouse’s contents._

_“And how will I know when it needs me? I do still have lands and estate and tenants upon them to run.”_

_From the same box, he plucked a simple silver pocket watch. “When the time comes, this will tell you everything you need to know.”_

_“Don’t be daft, it’s just a pocket watch.”_

_“Anne, I think you’ll find soon enough that most objects in my line of work are not mere objects. My line of work, that is, and, if you should accept it, yours.” He held out the watch, flipped open the cover, and pressed the button at the top. A small clicking and whirring noise and it was off, spiraling the hands to and fro until the face split open like an observatory window, showing the shining brass gears inside and a set of black diamonds. “It’s not the most remarkable of artifacts, but it does tell time: time to manage the Warehouse; time to hunt a curiosity, time to run, time to hide, time to wait, and so on. Each agent gets one such communicator and may pursue their lives outside of the Warehouse according to its readings. This is rather more unique than standard issue and also guards a deeper secret, which I entrust to you, should you take the job.” He closed the watch, and held it by the chain before Anne, who rose from the chair, palm outstretched._

_“If it were anyone but you offering me this, Steph, I would have needed a stronger argument.” The chain coiled around the watch in her hand, which she hooked to her vest and tucked into her pocket. She smiled ruefully at him. “Only an old friend could convince me to seek out and contain madness incarnate.”_

_“My dear Anne, I have wanted you to work for the Warehouse for years. Now that it will reside in London, you are the primary recruit and we still need a whole new batch of agents. First things first, however, and that means we need to be off to Moscow.” He scooped her coat from the back of another armchair. “We’ll have to think of a better phrase than ‘madness incarnate,’ however. Wouldn’t want to scare away prospective agents.”_

_“It _is _madness incarnate,” said Anne, taking her coat from him. “But not to worry, I am capable of brevity when called upon to create it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a bit to get around to finishing this one, folks, I had a busy couple of weeks. (Though I suppose two weeks' wait is better than a couple of years... see my last fic on this site if you wanna know how long it's been since I've touched that one >.>) 
> 
> I adopted a cat last Sunday, which was the bulk of the holdup--not to mention, kitty likes to sit on my lap and keyboard, especially while I'm writing. Thank you to everyone who popped into the comments, you've all been lovely. It always makes my day to read your thoughts!
> 
> Remember to be kind to yourselves, be kind to others, and if you feel so inclined, smash the like, bookmark, or comment button. And of course, always smash the patriarchy. Cheers!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there is blood in this chapter. Skip the italicized if you need!

_Warehouse 12, Autumn, 1834_

_“Miss Lister!” shouted Caturanga as he burst through the Warehouse door. Ann slumped on his shoulder, head lolling, staggering along with him as she hovered on the border of consciousness. Anne sped around the corner into the office and froze, white-faced on the threshold at the sight of her wife. Blood soaked through a thick layer of linen to the back of Ann’s shirt, dark red blotching on the white like wine on a tablecloth. Anne rushed forward to help, ducking under Ann’s other arm to half drag her to the desk._

_She shoved everything off with a sweep of her arm, books and papers and candles cascading to the floor with a varied chorus of clatters and crashes. Caturanga scuttled around to take Ann’s feet and they laid her facedown on the table. Ann’s freckled face was ashen and clammy, but she stirred a little with the slightest of groans, her breathing shallow. Anne crouched close to her wife’s head, sweeping sweaty blonde hair away, and checked Ann’s pulse against her watch. Weak and slow, too few struggling heartbeats._

_“Quickly,” said Anne, trying to control her shaking hands, “First shelf on the floor, Abulcasis’ catgut suture kit.” Caturanga dashed out of the office and Anne seized the back of Ann’s collar in both hands, rending the shirt open. “Stay with me, love, I can fix this,” said Anne in a low, panicked voice, pausing only to stroke Ann’s cheek once, leaving a bloody smear. Ann’s eyelids twitched at the touch. Anne peeled back the hasty linen bandage and her heart sank. Like open, dribbling mouths, there were three deep, weeping gashes in Ann’s back between her shoulder blades, stab wounds, if Anne judged correctly, which meant…_

_“Here,” said Caturanga, panting. He tossed a small box to Anne, who caught it, and grabbed a flask of brandy from the nearest shelf. He took a swig and hurried over to pour some over the wounds before Anne could thread the needle. She pricked Ann’s skin at the edge of the longest cut and let go: the needle and thread went to work and stitched the wound closed in a trice. Anne cut the string and re-threaded the needle so it could suture the next gash, and then the next. All wounds sewn closed, the needle fell dormant into Anne’s waiting palm, and she returned it to its box. She set it on the shelf behind the desk and busied herself looking for fresh cloth in the desk’s drawers._

_“Draw me some water, if you please, Caturanga,” she said briskly, and her apprentice ran out again to the next room. A set of spare, clean handkerchiefs would do for now. Anne drew a chair closer and ever so gently wiped Ann’s face. Caturanga staggered back in with a full basin, sloshing some on the carpet. He set it at Anne’s feet and without a word, she dipped the cloth into the water and started to wash Ann’s back. Dried blood gave way in rusty rivulets, and Anne, her jaw set and eyes steely, wiped them away. Panting, Caturanga sank to the floor, his knees knocking the whole way. Anne finished clearing away the blood and unfolded a clean handkerchief onto Ann’s back._

_“I need you standing, Agent Caturanga,” Anne commanded, softly smoothing the fabric. Caturanga pushed shakily off the floor and mopped his brow with his sleeve. No sooner had he stood than Anne pounced, pinning him to the wall by his throat. “What did I tell you when you insisted on taking this ridiculous mission with my wife?” she snarled. Caturanga spluttered, his glasses knocked askew. “I said on your own head be it if she is harmed, do you remember?” He coughed and choked, and rapidly tapped her hand, his face purpling. She sneered and let him go. “Explain.”_

_Caturanga bent double to catch his breath, massaging his neck. “Agent Walker knew the risks when she volunteered for the task,” he gasped. “Fortunately for her, we were too late to find anything in Rome. I didn’t know we were being watched, so we started back for London. The perpetrator must have followed us to the ferry from Paris, because someone tripped and toppled her to the ground before we boarded, and she started bleeding as soon as we cast off.”_

_“Did you catch a glimpse of our person at large?”_

_“It happened too quickly, and we were hurried along by the ferryman. It must have only been a momentary touch or she’d have suffered many more stabs. If she acquired the same wounds as Caesar, she would have died on the way here. How fortuitous that we’re conveniently located within a few streets of the docks.” Worry lines wrinkled paths around Caturanga’s eyes and mouth._

_“If you would kindly wait here, Caturanga, I shall go outside and borrow a horsewhip from the nearest cabbie,” said Anne through gritted teeth. She shoved him into a shelf, snatched her coat from the rack, and was about to pull the door open, when she heard Ann whimper and stir. The suture kit had done its job well: Ann’s wounds had closed on the surface by now and she would be mending much faster than if she had seen an ordinary surgeon._

_“Anne?” came her weak voice and Anne rushed to her side. She kissed her wife’s face, again and again._

_“I’m forbidding you from scaring me like that again,” said Anne through a sudden spring of tears. She folded Ann’s hand in both of hers and kissed it too._

_“’S cold…” Ann murmured, nuzzling into the desk. Anne draped her coat over Ann’s back, squeezed her hand, and threw a couple logs on the fire. She dusted her hands on her skirt and resumed her seat beside Ann. “Wh’happened?” _

_Anne looked up but Caturanga had vanished from the room, opting to take his hasty leave while she was distracted. “It seems our artifact got the better of you, Ann,” she said. “You lost a lot of blood.” She smoothed Ann’s hair again, fingertips feather light; Ann resembled a worn out china doll that could shatter at the slightest pressure. “We were lucky it was so close to home. You’re all patched.”_

_“Home,” Ann agreed with a sigh, her eyelids drooping. The tiniest shudder ran the length of her body, and her breathing had evened and deepened. Anne took her pulse again. Still weak, but it would do. Anne clasped her watch._

_“You’re not going to like it, but I’m prescribing you bed rest, and when you’re on your feet again, inventory and desk,” she said, stroking Ann’s thumb. Ann made a soft, plaintive noise. “And you’re not to fight until you’ve fully recovered.”_

_“Nooo,” Ann finally whined. She struggled to open her eyes, but managed to make the slightest pout. At last, her eyelids peeled apart, revealing slits of blue._

_“You’re not winning this one, my darling,” said Anne, a smile creeping onto her mouth. “Not while you’re loony from blood loss, anyway.” She kissed Ann’s forehead._

_“M’ fine,” Ann drawled. To prove her point, she tried to move, but only succeeded in shifting an inch closer to Anne._

_“Clearly,” said Anne, amused. She peeked under the coat and handkerchief: the wounds were already pink and puckered closed, but Ann would have the scars for life. One of the scars dragged just below Ann’s left shoulder blade; any deeper or lower, it would have punctured her lung. Much lower would have cost a kidney. Anne winced to think what would have happened if any of the wounds had hit something vital; though it had once been used to successfully stitch a slave girl’s gashed throat closed, Abulcasis’ suture kit could only heal non-fatal injuries. Thankfully, it had done its job well and Ann, though worse for wear, weak and excessively drowsy, would survive. Anne rested her forehead against Ann’s and they rested together for a time, Anne starting to be lulled into a sitting nap by Ann’s already unconscious breathing._

_Caesar’s shroud would have to wait until Ann was well enough for debrief. Still, Anne had the nagging sense as she slipped under that this artifact would spell more destruction for them in due course._

\--

Helena’s fingertip skimmed down the page. She hummed a little to herself and tucked her feet beneath her. Her favorite armchair hadn’t been moved since she had last lived at the B&B and it was still as comfortable as she remembered: large enough to accommodate folded legs, feet and perhaps another person, but still firm and stately enough to refrain from swallowing a reader sitting on it. She had spotted Claudia once or twice draped across it, legs slung over one of the arms with her back resting against the other, and resolved to try that once she fully abandoned all Victorian sensibilities.

With some satisfaction the night earlier, Helena had finished volume thirteen of Anne Lister’s diary, which had detailed Anne’s recruitment to the Warehouse and her role in relocating it from Moscow to London. Helena had appreciated Anne’s personal touches to Warehouse Twelve, some of which she herself had enjoyed as an agent: the cleverly redirected chimneys; the tidy organization of the library in a tall, circular room with a one-way glass dome ceiling to the building above; a certain trapdoor to a hidden sub-floor chamber that Anne had commissioned for a private room, which Helena supposed she had sort of inherited and had turned into her own personal study. In a way, it felt like she had known Anne through knowing the Warehouse and, she was starting to realize, through Caturanga.

Cheery and bright as he was, there was always a sense of practicality to his intense, whimsical imagination, as though he had found a way to balance the world he saw with Anne’s straightforward teachings. His love of puzzles—and insistence that the perfect cup of tea was one such—may have at times seemed nonsensical, but had helped him design protections for the Warehouse, and always had him working three steps ahead to predict where the holder of an artifact was hiding. He often pushed his agents to seek analytical solutions to the simplest of problems—where to find a teaspoon, for instance—though it often seemed that Helena and Wolcott were the only ones who caught on or, in Wolcott’s case, at least _tried _to meet that expectation. To the rest of the agents of Helena’s time, Caturanga was simply being _Caturanga_, much as Warehouse Thirteen’s agents would say that Artie was being _Artie_. It was in Caturanga’s nature to stand out so; rather than ask the world to make room for him, he made a place for himself in it by shaping the younger agents in his care.

Since she had been granted access to reading the diaries, Helena often found herself imagining what the banter would have been like between the three of them: herself, Caturanga and Anne Lister. Of course, by Helena’s time, Anne Lister would have been nearly a hundred years old. And what of it, she asked herself, being over a hundred wasn’t so bad. Vainly, if she were being honest, Helena imagined that Anne would have been fond of her.

_“Miss Wells, a woman of your intellect and prowess should seek her equal in a partner,” _Anne would have said.

_“Now that is a conundrum,” _Caturanga would have affirmed.

“If both of you would kindly allow me the privacy to think, I should like to finish this passage,” she muttered. She turned the page and the lamplight shifted with it before the shadows on the wall slid back into position.

Myka, slumped in her own armchair across the room, made a small noise in her sleep. An open book teetered on her knees; Helena hadn’t looked up to read the cover when Myka sat down after dinner. They had read in comfortable, companionable enough silence late into the night, and Myka nodded off at some point while Helena was reading about Anne’s first snag and bag. Helena finished her passage and closed the _Encyclopedia_: Anne had gone to Rome at Easter to fetch Pope Leo X’s pallium, which was starting to cause some political rifts in the Holy See, up to papal threats of excommunicating his top cardinals—and some threatening to excommunicate themselves. One had gone so far as to begin writing an organized list of complaints to nail to the Pope’s office door. The staunchly Anglican Anne had found the presentation of this case incredibly funny until, to her dismay, she learned that holy artifacts were harder to acquire permanently and rather than removing the artifact from Rome entirely, she and Belcombe had locked it away under the papal palace, which meant that Rome required an occasional check-in to ensure tensions had not arisen with the rediscovery of the artifact.

Helena cast a sidelong glance at Myka. Her chin rested on her chest, curls hanging in curtains about her cheeks, her hand wedged in the middle of the book where she had stopped. Ever conscious of her reading, even when unconscious, thought Helena with a small smile. She wanted to keep this scrap of peace in a tiny bottle and wear it next to her locket: Myka had started a soft snore, her shoulders rising and falling with her tidal breathing. Helena stretched, her elbows and shoulders cracking. She peeled off a glove and tucked the book under her arm. She crossed the room to stroke Myka’s cheek; her velvety down hairs there grazed Helena’s knuckles. Myka’s head lolled a little and she blinked awake.

“What time's it?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Helena glanced at the clock on the mantle. “Fifteen past one, just about.”

“How long was I out?” Myka yawned and stretched her arms, arching her back.

“An hour or so,” said Helena. Swooping down to kiss her would be too forward too soon, so she opted instead to help Myka out of the chair. “Let’s get you to bed.”

They trudged up the stairs and Helena grasped the doorknob to her room. She felt Myka’s hand on her shoulder and her stomach bolted up into her chest, her heart picking up its pace to compensate for the sudden lack of room.

“Did you mean it?” came the quiet question. Desperately hoping she wasn’t Orpheus or Myka would disappear when she looked, Helena turned back.

Myka’s face had the wear of sleeping, but not finishing a full night. Her features were softened, but not fresh and firm as they were in the morning; her eyelids drooped even as she forced them wider so she could stay upright on her feet; her hair was wilder than usual despite not having been slept _on_; her cheeks sagged ever so slightly. A week of truce had not dulled Helena’s attraction; if anything, it had sharpened the sense so she second-guessed every action: would this flirtation or innocuous movement break this contented peace and tentatively rekindled friendship? Once again in the hall, Myka seemed so inviting—at least, by comparison of the week prior—and looking was all Helena could do to resist burying her face in Myka’s graceful neck.

She swallowed. “Did I mean what?” she asked in reply, her mouth going dry.

“That you’d finish reading the diary and leave again.”

Ah. That. Helena knew the longer answer was that she always had to put up a barrier or snarky reply to give herself some sense of agency, even when resigning to her fate would have been far easier. She preferred the illusion of choosing which way to run or fight over simply feeling backed into a corner. She preferred the option of her grappler when cornered. But the Warehouse was home; that much was as good as written, indelible, in her skin. Even if she left again, she would find her way back or it would find her. Or, she hoped, Myka would.

It was shorter to say, “I don’t know.” This did not appease Myka, who frowned, eyes becoming slits as she started to lose the battle with her heavy eyelids. She jerked them open.

“You’d get what you want and you’d be gone.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t only factual.

“What is it that I want, then?” asked Helena slowly. She reached to take Myka’s hand from her shoulder and wound up holding her hand a moment too long. Brown eyes found green in the hall light.

“That’s a loaded question.” Myka was starting to wake up enough to banter.

“And that’s not an answer.” You know what it is, she did not say.

Another impasse. Helena dropped her gaze and opened her fingers to drop Myka’s hand, but Myka held on.

“If you don’t want to run, why do it?” Helena looked up. Myka was fully awake now, fixing her with the intense stare reserved for interrogation and investigation. It was the same look she fixed on Helena during the incident with Godfrid’s spoon, moments before Helena had grappled them to safety.

She did not mean to say, “Maybe I want someone to chase me.” Was flirting truly _all_ she knew how to do?

“But you don’t have to.” Myka was closer, Helena almost flat against her door. She couldn’t tell if she was breathing. She dry-swallowed again.

“Why is that?”

Myka bypassed Helena’s mouth entirely and whispered beside Helena’s ear, “I already caught you.”

Helena would have melted on the spot if she could have. “Technically, it was a surrender,” she murmured into Myka’s hair, which was the same simple clean scent she remembered.

“Stay,” was all Myka said, and she was gone down the hall, closing her door behind her. Helena felt no desire to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a slightly late angst fluff and slow burn chapter, friends. Amazing that we're almost at 1k hits! Unbelievable that my niche crossover is bringing so many people here. Y'all are truly the best.
> 
> Be kind to yourselves, be kind to others, be kind to animals, remember to always smash the patriarchy and if you feel so inspired, the like, comment, or bookmark buttons. Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8

“Coming your way, H.G.!” Claudia tore after their latest quarry, who was in possession of Usain Bolt’s track shoes. To no one’s surprise, the artifact du jour bestowed superhuman speed to the wearer at the eventual cost of burning their feet off. “Give it up, dude, your track career is toast if you keep those on!”

Helena intercepted him with a smooth Tesla flourish, emerging from an alley with the familiar squeal of electrical discharge. Change the rules indeed, she thought with a hint of amusement as the young man crumpled at her boots, the chase ended prematurely in the sudden green flash. Puffing as she caught up, Claudia broke her run and doubled over, supporting herself against the brick wall. “Nice… shot…” she panted, head still dipped. “Dwarves… sprinters… not… long distance…” Helena arched a quizzical eyebrow and Claudia shook her head, waving off the momentary confusion. From her back pocket, she pulled a folded static bag.

“Well done, partner,” offered Helena, taking it. The poor fellow’s feet had already begun to smoke, and together they pried off the shoes.

“_Pew_, first order of business when we get back to Univille is scent-neutralizing masks,” Claudia groaned. She pulled a face as Helena zipped the bag. As if in protest to its capture, the artifact treated Helena to a pungent waft of old sweat, which could only belong to an athlete.

“Seconded, _god,_” she choked. “I don’t suppose it would hurt on Pete’s laundry day, either.”

Claudia rested her palms on her knees as she leaned over to examine their suspect, a freshman rising track star at Oberlin College. She raised her fist to H.G., who nudged it with her own. She _was_ getting better at modern signs of friendship and affection. “What d’ya think we should do with Sonic here?”

Another reference whizzed past Helena’s ear. “Sonic…?” she repeated.

“The hedgehog? Gotta go fast? Okay, second order of business, educate the hundred-something Victorian lady on video game classics. Pete will be thrilled.”

“One thing at a time, darling, I’m still settling in,” said Helena, looping her forearms under the kid’s armpits. Claudia wrinkled her nose and took his feet. They propped him against the nearest dormitory beside the bicycle rack, as though he had fallen asleep and his shoes had been stolen.

“I do feel a little bad leaving poor Dylan there,” said Helena as they walked away.

“It’s a college campus at two in the morning during frat rush,” Claudia said. “If anything, being locked out at night like that is not the weirdest thing the RAs will have seen.” She turned around so Helena could tuck the static bag deep into her shouldered backpack.

"I doubt Artie would approve," said Helena idly. She smoothed her jacket against the autumn breeze.

“What Artie doesn’t know won’t kill him, though I guess it’s a coronary threat in potential.” Claudia shrugged. She slumped a little, stretching her lower back. “We could’ve done worse, kiddo needs to learn some manners. And not to run when he gets caught, that only made it worse.” Arching her back, she groaned. "Computer geek, not meant for running after delinquent student athletes."

“They always run,” said Helena, a small smile touching her eyes. “But you’re right, he was incredibly rude when we arrived.”

Not three weeks into Helena’s return, Claudia’s computer had simultaneously pinged about three different artifacts across the globe. Pete called dibs on Tahiti for an artifact suspected to be linked to Polynesian mythology, saying he needed some beach time as he slung an arm around Myka. (Helena coughed into her fist to mask her frown, her partnering hopes dashed.) Artie requested that Steve accompany him to track down Marston’s Polygraph, which had somehow made its way out of Massachusetts to the Polish-Russian border. (“Human lie detector for the original lie detector,” Claudia quipped.) Which left Helena and Claudia the track shoes in Ohio while Abigail held down the fort.

“First official field mission in three years,” he said, “Keep it tight and clean, I don’t want anyone losing their respective appendages.”

“And you can just waltz back into Russia?” Helena couldn’t resist poking holes in his selection.

“Russian _border,_” retorted Artie, “My status with them has been re-classified—I don’t think you would want to go back right away, given your run-in with—_anyway_.” He flipped his wrist to offer her the case file. “Time to work.”

Helena accepted the folder and shot a hopeful sideways glance at Myka, who gave a noncommittal eyebrow twitch before following Pete through the door to pack at the B&B. After a quick survey of the office, snatching seemingly random objects for his bag here and there, Artie too led Jinks through the door, which closed with a tight hiss behind them.

“Just like Godfrid’s spoon, yeah?” said Claudia cheerfully, peering over Helena’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t be more than an overnight or two. Easy peasy.”

And Claudia was right. The investigation took little time as their track star broke a sprint record by several lengths, cockily showed off his "lucky shoes" to the "school newspaper" (Claudia posing questions behind a notebook and glasses) after the meet, and pressed Claudia for a date multiple times after her pointed refusal. They found him again later that night, trying to sneak into a sorority house through a second floor window, at which point he took off across campus, right into Helena's Tesla.

The morning after their capture of the artifact, they trundled onto a plane and arrived at the Bed and Breakfast in time for a late lunch. Munching sandwiches, Helena and Claudia watched Abigail through the glass doors as she threw a ball for Trailer, who gleefully bounded across the yard and back, all teeth and panting in his canine grin. Helena tried not to scowl as she fingered her Farnsworth, which lay closed on the table, still quiet after their check in with Artie and Steve, who said their trip would take longer than expected; the polygraph had fallen into the care of the Kremlin, which would no doubt take a deft manicured hand from Mrs. Frederic and much negotiation from the United States government. No word from Pete and Myka. Helena could picture Pete, sipping a smoothie in board shorts and a hibiscus-printed button down, escorting bikini-top-and-sarong Myka through beach umbrellas, both of them in sun hats and shades. They would be doing the married-couple-on-their-honeymoon bit, no doubt to blend in. Though it was just a cover, Helena grappled a surge of jealousy, that round, annoying swooping in her gut, but recognized--grumpily--that it was for the best that Pete claimed his regular partner: even in the case that Helena and Myka hadn't ventured to the islands together, Helena knew she would have been distracted by any state of Myka's dress. Inwardly, she grumbled. This overwhelming envy hadn't been an issue with Wolly or Smith, or any of her partners at Twelve, and it felt most alien to be antsy and idle. Her time in bronze had trained her almost perfectly to sit still and appreciate her thoughts, though among the first things she did after the blindness wore off were nearly a dozen Kenpo forms.

Claudia gave a knowing smirk. "If you're going to be this keyed up when Myka's away, we should get you a fidget spinner or one of those cubes," she said. When Helena turned sharply at Myka's name, Claudia laughed. "We could throw a ball for you, too, H.G., I'm sure Trailer would appreciate some friendly fetch competition."

Helena glowered, but knew better than to take the bait, and traced crumbs on her plate. On cue, Abigail held the porch door open for Trailer, who wiped his paws on the mat (surely this was artifact-induced, combined with careful conditioning by Artie or Leena), muddied ball still in his mouth. He trotted to Helena and sat, dropping the ball at her feet. They regarded each other for a moment before Helena relented and scratched Trailer's ears. He lolled against her leg, panting, tongue pink and flapping out the side of his mouth. His tail thumped the floor.

"You look pleased with yourself, old chap," she said, leaning down to pet his chest, his long fur exquisitely soft. Trailer gave a slight sneeze as he rolled over, and a hind leg began flicking against the air.

Theirs was a tentative friendship only on Helena's part; as she hadn't grown up around dogs, the addition of Trailer to the Warehouse team was an adjustment in his first days at the Warehouse, as he didn't seem to understand that she was a holograph at that time, and his paw slid right through her phantom leg. Once she had re-settled into the land of physical bodies, Helena was never sure she'd grow accustomed to his hair and breath and drool, and prior to her departure had kept him at arm's length. However, upon her return and re-reinstatement, the dog was the most openly pleased to see her among the agents, and Helena surprised herself by greeting him just as warmly when he made his way over to her, placed his front paws on her shoulders, and gave her a fond lick on the cheek.

Abigail plopped into a vacant chair, took the bread and sealed tub of egg salad, and began to assemble her own sandwich. "Good timing on the snag, ladies, it was starting to get too quiet around here." Trailer lifted his snout toward her and gave a small, sharp bark. "Yes, you make noise and you do that so well," Abigail retorted.

"Rather a talent," Helena agreed. She had been meaning to spend more time with Abigail, the newest recruit and successor to Leena, though Helena had to admit that Abigail had an intimidating air about her, no matter how warm she was. Perhaps it was the self-assured and simultaneously self-aware nature common to many therapists. Or perhaps as Keeper of Warehouse history and deeper secrets than Artie or even Mrs. Frederic could access, she was indeed formidable. Or else Abigail possessed something Helena had never quite mastered in full: complete honesty with herself. Helena had to marvel a little at the setting: three highly intelligent women--one, the cleverest computer engineer and inventor of her day, the Keeper of all Warehouse knowledge and proprietor of the Bed and Breakfast, and, well, herself--all sitting around the same table, just having lunch. All that was missing--

Abigail affixed the second slice of bread to the top of her sandwich. "You look like you have a lot on your mind, Helena." She took a casual bite, and Helena had the distinct feeling that Abigail was looking right through her in a way reminiscent of Mrs. Frederic.

"Was it obvious?"

"H.G., please, you always have something in your head," said Claudia. "Also your forehead looks like--" It was Helena's turn to fix Claudia with a piercing glare. "Got it," she concluded in an awkward tone, picked up her ever-present laptop and plate, and made her exit. Trailer perked up and followed her to the couch in the next room.

"Growing pains?" Abigail urged conversationally.

"I adore Claudia, truly, though I forget that sometimes I tire of her company when she makes a few too many jokes at my expense." Helena combed her fingers through her hair.

"And your patience is thinner from... work? Or is there something else?"

"I..." Helena hesitated. How much was she willing to reveal?

Sensing this, Abigail held her sandwich over her heart, other hand in the air. "Total confidentiality, no one else gets to hear this."

A smile twitched Helena's lips. "I suppose I can't turn down an oath on egg salad."

"I had heard of you only in passing, and I knew some about you through the Warehouse," said Abigail, hours later, "but your baggage here is real. And multifold."

"And Myka never mentioned anything about... about us?"

"We both know Myka is an intensely private person," Abigail admitted, "But then, there is also my confidence to consider here." Helena looked at the floor, finding herself a little bashful. "But I guess subject matter isn't a true breach if it wasn't ever discussed."

So rather than acknowledge the past, Myka plowed on as always, as if it had never happened. Classic, thought Helena bitterly. "What ought we to do, do you think?"

"Given you both still appear to have feelings, it seems like something an honest, open conversation could alleviate, at minimum."

A reasonable suggestion, Helena agreed silently. She had to admit, this exchange with Abigail--while she still had a looming sense of urgency around Myka--left her feeling lighter. "But where to start? I can't exactly begin with 'remember when you broke my heart and I left?'"

"That's one way to approach it." Abigail had the gift of smiling while moving her mouth very little. What was it Claudia had called it? Smizing? "But maybe open with asking for the conversation first."

Bollocks it all, thought Helena later, after she climbed into bed with Anne's diary, which she had tucked in a pillowcase with a pair of gloves. She switched on her bedside lamp and seized her Farnsworth from its drawer. She twiddled the dial to Myka's frequency, took a breath, and pressed the button.

Fortune must have smiled on her, because Myka's face crackled into view, no Pete apparent in frame, or out of it. She was wearing sunglasses and had pulled her hair back into a springy ponytail. Helena forced herself not to blush: her own state of undress, even if it was full pajamas, felt so informal and, in a way, was an intimacy they had not shared for some time. Which wasn't to mention the nighttime call, an old habit from when they had spent rare missions apart.

Myka's opening "Hey" was a tentative, tacit question; her voice perked a half step higher toward the end of the syllable.

"Just wanted to check in," Helena heard herself say, "Claudia and I got back from Ohio this afternoon." She recounted their mission, from arriving at the track meet, to the capture and Claudia's idea for a scent neutralizer, which Myka heartily approved.

Tahiti was three or so hours behind, so the sun was still bright as it set somewhere behind Myka. Even in black and white, Helena could tell the colors must have been lavish in the sky, setting what should have been a rosy tone--here, just a different shade of gray--to Myka's cheeks. Myka, if confused at first, steadily reported another successful snag and bag, ending spectacularly with Pete full body tackling a waiter to wrest a traditional tattooing rake from his hand. The rake had nearly caused a tsunami, and Myka described in detail how quickly the sea had receded until Pete had bagged the artifact.

"He's gonna ask Artie if he can stay another couple of days," Myka added, "We took out this one faster than anticipated."

"Pete did make a case for beach time," said Helena, trying not to sound disappointed. What was she so disappointed for, she demanded of herself, exasperated, it was the same amount of time as expected. Loving at arm's length, or whatever it was they were doing, she decided then, was exhausting.

"I think I'll let Pete have his fun on his own time, and come back to the B&B," said Myka, her nose wrinkling, upper lip curling. Helena forced her own face to remain polite and attentive. "It's jellyfish season."

Helena had nearly forgotten Myka's deep distaste for anything tentacled. There had been an aquarium visit during which Jeanne Villepreux-Power's aquarium refused to be neutralized unless it was filled to the brim with goo, and Myka had shied away from the small octopus it had housed. The octopus, Helena observed, took Myka's crossing to the other side of the room as an affront, or else as an opportunity to play, and squirted a jet of water at her. To Helena's amusement mingled with genuine concern, Myka had squealed like a teenager and made a break for the car.

"We are never. Mentioning this," Myka had said through gritted teeth as Helena held her tightly in the backseat of their assigned SUV, the tank full of goo loaded in the trunk. Coupled with her love of most other animals and somewhat less intense fear of heights (the exception being airplanes), Helena found this softer, more elusive side of Myka endearing. Though Helena did understand and could appreciate how difficult it was to be vulnerable in that way.

"Myka, I..." Helena began slowly. On the little screen, Myka's head tilted. Helena's breath caught. "We should talk." Why did her voice sound so robotic?

"We _are_ talking," said Myka patiently, half a smirk just touching the corners of her mouth and eyes.

"I mean, when you're back. We should... sit down... discuss." Very eloquent, Wells. She could have slapped herself. She should have.

"And what are we discussing?" Bless Myka for letting her walls down enough at this point to play along.

"I.. it was a suggestion," she stammered. If Caturanga could see her now, H.G. Wells, author and inventor, never at a loss for words, stuttering over asking for a conversation. "We do have to live with each other again. We should spend some time figuring out what that means. For us."

"You got to know Abigail," Myka offered. She didn't seem surprised, nor did she sound impatient, as Helena had been expecting.

Helena surged forward. "She thinks we should try to resolve... whatever it is we have to resolve." She could see Myka's jaw set as she bit her tongue. "Not a bad idea, if it'll make us more comfortable going forward." The corner of Helena's mouth tugged itself deeper into her cheek.

Myka _was_ softer than she had been in the past weeks. With a sigh, she hung her head for a split second. Her face snapped back into view and she said, "Alright, we should. Talk."

"And you've been getting advice from Pete," Helena teased, finding her normal voice. It occurred to her that Myka was going to ask her for the same thing.

"Sure, he's a pain, but he is my best friend," said Myka in resignation. "So I guess... I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Are you sure the Tahitian beach isn't more attractive company?"

"Not more attractive than you," said Myka without thinking. She realized too late what she had said and her mouth dropped open. Behind those sunglasses, Helena was sure Myka's eyes had gone wide. Neither wanted to look at the screen, and for several short breaths, Helena busied her gaze with the texture of her wall. Myka appeared to be looking at her feet.

"Tomorrow, then, darling," said Helena, finally allowing herself a small smile. Myka looked back at her, eyes unfathomable behind darkened lenses. "Safe travels."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, friends! I hope your new year started well. Since September, I hit a block, took a break for the holidays, and have had some things pop up here and there since our last chapter, including professional, paid poetry publication! The other good news is I have ideas to move forward with this fic, which I'll hopefully be adding to this coming weekend.
> 
> As to this chapter, "down time" among characters is always a tough thing to write, but necessary to let the story breathe... much patience was necessary to write this one and set up for next chapter.
> 
> Remember to be kind to yourselves--new year, new decade, endless possibilities and wonder. Smash all the buttons if you please, and smash the patriarchy, which is mandatory.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> P.S. If there's any interest in the music I was listening to while I wrote any of this fic, I'm happy to share!


	9. Chapter 9

Outside the B&B, Myka gripped the handle of her roller bag. Her stomach had done a job of twisting itself into a Gordian knot; though she would have preferred alternate methods of untangling, she wouldn't have been surprised if someone needed to run her through with a sword to release the tension. (The actual Gordian Knot was somewhere in the Warehouse, she was sure.) She tried not to grind her teeth, or to worry her lower lip. She tried not to rake her fingers through her thick curls. She desperately wanted a Twizzler, and with the overnight flight home and lack of sleep that accompanied it, her nerves jangled and frayed like a faulty set of surrealist keys.

"Buck up, Bering," she told herself. "It's_home_." She exhaled and approached the front door.

She both wanted and dreaded this: her Farnsworth call with Helena was embarrassing, unexpected, and yet, pleasant enough, indicative of their burgeoning... whatever it was. Renaissance? No, that sounded too classy. And too forward. Myka was not fond of leaving things open for interpretation and she tried very hard to remind herself on the flight in that this was to be a casual conversation between two consenting adults who had yet to figure out what the best way forward was to, well, _adult_. Around, with, and next to each other. Pete making faces behind the Farnsworth while she and Helena talked didn't help, either. Fortunately, after several years of snagging, bagging, and tagging, Myka knew all the best angles to stay in partial view of the camera while motioning at Pete to _knock it off_.

Myka had closed the conversation and her Farnsworth, and then swatted Pete out of a kissy face.

"What?" said Pete, grinning, "I think it's sweet you two are talking again." Myka grimaced and Pete continued, "Good ol' Bering and Wells? Pointing guns, saving the world from yourselves or each other?"

"It's solving puzzles, saving the day," Myka muttered, pocketing the Farnsworth.

"See, you still correct me about your catchphrases, this is still a thing," Pete said. He gave Myka a fond poke on the shoulder.

"There is no _thing_, Pete, we're still exes."

"Soon-to-be-ex-exes," Pete singsonged, waggling his shoulders. "Come on, H.G. is still in love with you and hey, hey, hey, you still love her." He accented each 'hey' with a pointed finger.

"It's history, Pete, whatever we... _discuss_... will just... clear the air and we can go back to being normal agents with normal Warehouse jobs." Myka impatiently swept a stray curl back from her cheek, almost ashamed when she found the stick of evaporating sweat.

"Mykes, we work for the Warehouse," said Pete, "_Normal _isn't exactly status quo with us, how many times do we have to tell you?"

"At least once more," she said, flattening her mouth into a disgruntled line.

"Do you want a lesson in Lattimer charm? Woo your British lady love and win her back?" He clasped his hands beside his chin, so eager.

"There is no _winning _or _wooing_, Pete. It's just a conversation."

"A conversation you're eager to go home for," he said, "Who turns down the beach in Tahiti for _Univille?"_

"Evidently, Myka Bering during jellyfish season, you _know _I hate tentacles," she swatted him again.

"Not the kind of porn you're into, I know," he laughed as she punched him in the arm, harder. "I'm just saying, you're turning down vacation for Helena. You know I'm right."

Myka sighed. This was not the first time they'd discussed her feelings on Helena's return. And Pete's last round of advice had actually been good: "Just let her in a little and talk to her," he'd instructed, and not four hours later, the Farnsworth had buzzed.

"Fine, if you're right, I owe you a brunch or two. But Lattimer," she called after him as he strutted toward their hotel, "Not a word to anyone else until we've got our stuff sorted for ourselves."

"No can do, Ms. Bering, the betting pool is officially open, and Claud already Venmoed me fifty bucks."

Myka didn't want to, but asked, "What for?" She covered her face with her hand.

"Oh, that Helena would make the first move, but I have a sneaking suspicion you'll surprise us. I got a good vibe."

Thankfully, no one appeared to be occupying the B&B upon her arrival, and Myka was left to unpack in peace. She let Pete the ferret out of his enclosure (she hated the word "cage"), and he wasted no time snaking in and out of her clothes as she sat on the corner of her bed, depositing them into the hamper. Making a noise that she had grown to lovingly call "ferret throat singing," Pete wound his way into her lap to give Myka's fingers an affectionate nibble. He accepted her absentminded strokes and allowed himself to be scooped up and placed on her shoulder, where he draped himself as artfully as possible, while his owner restored order to her room and belongings. She paused only on occasion to scratch his head, and then once more to deposit him back into his hutch with food. Her coming home ritual complete, Myka plucked a random book from her shelf and padded downstairs to find her favorite armchair, bagged artifact also in tow.

She could have kicked herself when she sat down. _The Time Machine_, really? She glanced at the clock, which read four thirteen. Too early for a meal, and too early for anyone to come home from inventory, gooery maintenance, and other rote (if you could call them that) duties in the Warehouse, though they'd be back within half an hour, Myka estimated. She tried opening the book, but couldn't focus, and sat frustratedly flipping the same page back and forth as her eyes skimmed it, absorbing none of the words. Myka didn't want to admit it, but she was growing curious of Anne Lister's diary, if also a little jealous of Helena's exclusive access to its semi-original copy. Her fingertips drummed the chair and she realized she hadn't grabbed a Twizzler from her closet stash, which she kept well-hidden in the wall behind a loose panel. It was almost a relief when she heard the door open and three sets of feet, accompanied by Trailer's clacking paws, cross the threshold.

It was Trailer who found her first, giving a single bark of greeting as he bounded over to her. He let her pet his head before he turned around, only to return with Helena.

"Traitor," she muttered at him, but Trailer just smiled in his way, and left them alone.

Helena was half hugging herself, one arm hanging with the other hand clasped around its elbow. She had tied up her hair, reminiscent of their first meeting in London. "Welcome home," she said, a note of sheepishness in her voice. She had never been this bashful before Boone, Myka thought, observing her tentative, closed body language. But then Helena met her gaze and there was that old assuredness in her dark eyes. "I'm glad you're back safely."

"Takes more than an airplane to harm me," said Myka, feeling her face soften. She stood, fighting an urge to cross into the doorway and fall slowly into Helena's arms. It was a rare occasion that she realized how _much _she missed physical affection, but when she did, the raw craving gnawed her insides.

Helena opened her mouth to speak, but Claudia interrupted her, Trailer prancing at her heels. "Abigail's thinking we should order Chinese and make it a girls' night--am I... interrupting? Something?" she cut short, slowing her speech as though to draw out the awkwardness. Helena and Myka both looked away.

"Claud, you should get your money back, gambling is detrimental to Pete's sobriety," said Myka.

"Not with a payout that good," said Claudia, smirking. Helena opened and closed her mouth quizzically. "Besides, it was Steve's idea."

Myka shook her head. "Why is my personal life so interesting to you all?"

"Uh, Mykes, because your work life is all you've had for _quite _some time," said Claudia. Myka crossed her arms. "We want you to be happy, and if we have a little friendly competition with big bucks at stake, that's just--" To Myka's surprise, Claudia tapped her on the nose. "--_bonus._"

"You've started a gambling ring around... Myka's personal affairs?" Helena sounded amused. Myka strode past both of them to hide her blush.

"Warehouse personnel only, H.G., but that's all I'm at liberty to say." Claudia lifted her hands in a shrug.

Setting foot in the kitchen, Myka heard Helena protest, "Claudia, I_am _Warehouse personnel." Abigail was already putting in an order on her phone.

"Char siu bao all right by you?" she asked, tapping the screen.

"Perfect, thanks," said Myka. She leaned against the counter opposite Abigail. They were quiet for a moment, Abigail busy making selections, Myka taking a moment to breathe in a calmer, Helena-free environment. In the background, there was a muffled _whump _of Helena whacking Claudia with a cushion, likely having riddled out the truth of the betting pool. "Hey, you didn't bet against me, did you?" Myka asked, fidgeting with her thumbnail.

Abigail softly smiled and finished placing the order before replying. She made gentle eye contact, giving Myka the distinct feeling that she meant more than what she was saying: "You could say I bet on you both."

They consumed dinner, which had, to no one's complaint, mostly consisted of noodles and dumplings, on the floor around the coffee table with an episode of_Xena_. After the story of the Lucy Lawless Chakram snag, Claudia had insisted on showing Helena what, exactly, they meant by "Warrior Princess antics," and Abigail ruled the show a perfect girls' night choice. Myka, who had protested at first, fought the urge to hide her face when the titular character vaulted up a tree purely with backflips, leather armor lashing every direction as she kicked and stabbed and whirled with actual_whoosh _noises.

"Look, she's gonna do the thing," said Claudia, grabbing Helena's shoulder and pointing. On cue, Xena seized her chakram and flung it, and it ricocheted to and fro around the set, bouncing off barrels, helmets and walls, knocking down banners and slicing through spears. Myka shot a sideways glance at Helena, who seemed to be torn between amusement and skepticism at the pure camp of it all.

"How does it bounce off some things, but cut through others?" asked Helena later, thoroughly absorbed.

"Shh, don't question it," said Claudia, also staring at the screen in rapt attention. "Just accept the awesome."

The credits rolled to brass fanfare and Myka jumped up to volunteer for dish duty.

There wasn't too much to do once leftovers in their respective containers had been stowed in the fridge, and no sooner had Myka cleaned a plate than Helena sidled up to the sink to take it from her and dry.

"Suspension of disbelief certainly seems to be in demand for the Warrior Princess," Helena commented casually. "But then, we suspend disbelief every day, so it was enjoyable enough."

Myka hummed in response and handed her another clean plate. She forced herself to focus on scrubbing the dried soy sauce and starch from the dishes, and not on the fact that Helena was a mere foot away, waiting. At least there was companionable quiet, interrupted only by the rush of the faucet and clean squeak of the sponge or towel.

When the last plate had been dried, Helena said in a low voice that curled into Myka's ears and gave her goosebumps, "Diverting as that was, I haven't forgotten our conversation." She surprised Myka by slinging the towel oh-so-casually over her shoulder, where it hung, damp and domestic and looking very out of place. Didn't the towel know it was draped on_H.G. Wells? _And yet, H.G. Wells herself was fiddling with the hem, while she regarded Myka with out-of-character shyness, her graceful chin tucked.

"I haven't, either," said Myka just as softly. Her throat dried and she had to swallow.

"Upstairs in fifteen minutes, informal attire?" God, that accent, her alto purr. Even when she was nervous, Helena could charm a wasp's nest with her voice alone.

There were the pesky goosebumps again, and her ears started burning, the hairs on the nape of her neck all standing as though on tiptoe. Not for the first time, Myka was grateful for her thick mane of curls, which hid everything but the creeping blush on her neck in the yellow kitchen light. "Okay."

How many times had she shown up in pajamas outside Helena's door before they resigned to migrating between their two rooms together? Helena liked her overlarge desk, which doubled as a workbench, and Myka preferred to keep her ferret in his own space, and whichever bed didn't matter to them, so they had ended up sleeping wherever they happened to meet at night. Helena's room, as it was closest to the stairs, had become the default if they were downstairs when they decided to alight and sleep. Myka shook these memories out of her head, curls splaying. The familiar feeling of plainness from the early days of their relationship had started looming; it had taken her nearly a month of their evening talks and eventual evening forays for Myka to feel fully comfortable appearing before Helena in sweats.

Myka sucked in a breath and knocked. There was Helena, in a _hoodie_, of all things, her hands swimming in the front pocket, hair still tied up. The sweatshirt nearly swallowed her small frame, but somehow she still looked graceful.

"Oberlin, really?" said Myka before she could stop herself, indicating the print.

"I'm allowed souvenirs on occasion," said Helena mildly. She stepped aside to allow Myka passage and closed the door behind her.

They stood opposite each other, Myka having paused at the desk and Helena still by the door. A beat, then Helena spoke first, quickly: "Wine?"

"God, yes," said Myka with the same speed.

Helena crossed to her closet, where she tapped the floorboards until one came loose. She pulled up a bottle as though she were unearthing a precious vegetable, replaced the floorboard, and retrieved a wine key from her desk drawer. She seated herself in the antique office chair while she uncorked the wine, and Myka plopped onto the bed.

"Impressive hiding spot," said Myka, though they both knew that the B&B was full of these oddities if they knocked the right places on the floors and walls. She accepted the bottle and took a swig, having already noted the lack of cups. Always good taste in everything, though, she thought; the dry red blend went down smoothly. She passed it back, their fingers grazing, and Helena took a long draught.

"Sorry I forgot glasses," she said, "In any case, you know my history with glass, and it's not conducive to stashing a bit of Leena's crystal."

"You're an inventor, you're supposed to break things on occasion." Myka again received the wine and took another careful sip.

"Hearts, too, it seems," said Helena, a little bitter edge creeping into her voice.

There she was again, scoring a direct hit with an indirect phrase. Myka took another drink as a response. Everything started flowing back into her head: Bering and Wells, forever destined to meet at gunpoint, Yellowstone, the hologram, solving puzzles, saving the day, the ill-fated chess lock, their firsts--missions, kisses, sex--and what they didn't know were their lasts. Not for the first time, Myka cursed her eidetic memory: she could replay and see all of it exactly, the black sweep of Helena's hair as she whisked them to safety with her grappler, the cocky eyebrow as they collected the stone chess pieces, Helena's shining brown eyes when she proposed.

"I'm sorry I was angry." Myka said the first thing that came into her head. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the fact that she hadn't slept in almost twenty-four hours, but her mind and speech felt dull. "I didn't want to admit I wanted you back. Here." _That I made a mistake_, she didn't add.

"I'm sorry I left," Helena replied. Their apologies hung gossamer suspended in the air, over the half empty bottle that traveled between them. If fragile, it was at least a start.

"What now, I guess?" whispered Myka. Though her breathing was shallow, something felt as though it was taking up too much room in her ribcage.

"Whatever we want," murmured Helena, "but for now..." She gave a wry smile over the lip of the bottle.

That smile was the stuff poets wrote about, thought Myka. The sly curve of her lips, the tease of teeth. Something deep in her stomach stirred; that was a smile, Myka remembered, that she had told herself she could wake up to every morning. And for a while, she had. And every morning she awoke alone rubbed the hurt raw again.

"But I ruined it," she mumbled. "I ruined_us_."

_"We _did that," Helena corrected. "We always did that sort of thing together, you and I. Saving the day _and _sometimes wrecking it. Even for ourselves."

You're being too nice, Myka didn't say. She wanted Helena to yell at her, seize her shoulders and shake her, to tell her it was all her fault. The refusal, the botched explanation that drove her away. She wanted Helena to throw the last three years at her, to tell her she had been better off with Nate or Giselle or alone. Taking the blame and fighting back was easier than trying to fix even a friendship between them. But Helena's hands were inventor's hands; hands that sometimes broke things, sometimes made new things from broken things, and sometimes simply fixed them.

"But I told you to fight for Nate. For your new life. I wanted you to be happy."

"And that was very kind and noble of you, but you were right. I was stubborn then, and eventually found myself unfit for the mundane, even in this age. I didn't want to think that the Warehouse was the only home I could know. And I forgot that with the Warehouse comes the world and all the wonders in it." She paused to catch Myka's eye before adding, "And you."

Myka looked at her feet. "Boone destroyed me. The last three years destroyed me."

"And here we are, rubble and ruin of who we once were," said Helena with half-hearted sarcasm.

"Something tells me we needed the time apart." The words stuck to her tongue, slow to pass her teeth into the empty space between them.

"You were always smart, but that borders on wisdom." Teasing, Helena tilted her head to appreciate a new angle of her view, her mouth curving upward to touch her eyes. She set the bottle down and sat gingerly beside Myka on the bed, but was careful to fold her hands in her lap.

At this closeness, she could feel heat radiating from Helena's body, and Myka's skin screamed to be touched, every pore and hair on her arms a live wire. She could feel a blush flooding her face once more, and she couldn't stand it any longer. In slow motion, heart a battering ram in her chest, she released each rigid muscle in her hands to allow her fingertips to stretch across the inches between them. It could have been an ocean of distance separating them for how long it took her to touch. Barely breathing, she watched her hand land lightly on Helena's. Helena inhaled and looked down in soft surprise, before meeting Myka's insistent green stare. Myka felt Helena's hands unclasp, allowing her to reclaim familiar territory and, one by one, lace their fingers.

Taking this as a small invitation, Helena raised their hands to her mouth and trailed feather light kisses along Myka's knuckles, and Myka caught her, cupping Helena's cheek with her spare palm. Helena pressed into this touch, turning her head to kiss the palm that held her. They paused to look at each other again, their breath shallow and just audible. Helena's lips were two pink lovers pulled apart for air and her eyelids lowered as she looked at Myka's mouth in turn, then back up. Theirs was a silent agreement, a question and an answer in the familiar way their gazes touched. Neither could tell who leaned in first--perhaps it was simultaneous--but Myka had closed her eyes in time to feel Helena's lips press against hers. They were as soft as she remembered, tasting Helena's warmth and a shadow of the wine's tang.

They paused for a moment, a little stunned. Helena leaned back in, but Myka stopped her, brushing her fingertips against Helena's mouth. She lost count of the breaths they took together, eyes roaming, but she couldn't hold back for long, and again met Helena's lips, and again. She could feel heat spreading from the soles of her feet, a soaring feeling unfurling in her stomach, and their kisses grew more insistent, as though to make up for time they had lost. Helena made the faintest sound against Myka's mouth, sending a jolt to Myka's center. She had fallen out of the habit of allowing herself to want like this; not caring about air or taking it in at all, but feeding her all-consuming hunger for Helena. Oxygen didn't matter, the Warehouse didn't matter, the furtive glances they'd get at breakfast the next morning didn't matter.

Again, they broke apart long enough for Myka to throw a leg over Helena, pinning her to the bed with kisses, curly hair curtaining around them. Helena wrapped her arms around Myka, and still could not be close enough. Myka felt Helena's tongue slide against her lips, and she reveled in the familiar, long absent caress, allowing her entry. Her hands slid under Helena's hoodie against her smooth stomach, and Helena gasped before finding the skin of Myka's back, fingernails digging in. They had always both had cold hands, and the sudden, icy grip was enough to remind Myka of what was happening, slam her back to earth, and she pulled away abruptly.

"What are we doing?" Myka murmured, somewhere between shock and desire and relief, resting her forehead against Helena's. But the knot in her stomach finally untangled itself, and Myka felt her body relax with it, heavy exhaustion setting into her limbs. Helena allowed her to roll off, and for several minutes, they lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard at first. Myka felt Helena turn onto her side, and she mirrored her, astonished at how their proximity allowed her to see the black flecks that freckled Helena's irises, her full eyelashes. She had forgotten about those. Her heart, which had slowed in the interim, sped up again.

They didn't need to say things like _I missed you. _Pete had always said their connection was freaky, to an extent; the way they'd move or tell him off at the same time, the way they could have a whole conversation without speaking. This, Myka remembered, was what it was to be_known:_ Helena's keen eyes drinking her in with full understanding of who she was and how she worked, both of them content to simply look at each other. Helena's eyebrows pushed together a little, and with a small smile, Myka stroked the worried ridges in her skin smooth. Helena sighed, and Myka understood: They had done less talking than intended, but whatever it was between them felt safe and slow. They could worry about labels later. She allowed Helena to take her hand this time, the micro expressions between them softening to blurs as Myka's eyelids drooped.

Helena’s murmur broke the silence, "You could stay, if you like."

Myka could feel herself sinking into the bed, warming the indent in the comforter where she lay, and she had no desire to get up. She made a plaintive whimper, but allowed herself to be repositioned and blanketed. She inhaled Helena's sweet shampoo from the pillow where she landed, but forgot the names of the herbs and flowers that scented it. The light clicked, and she felt Helena climb in beside her, gathering Myka against her chest. Myka drifted, feeling Helena nuzzle the place where her ear met her neck, placing the softest kiss against the corner of her jaw.

\--

_Anne woke with a raging headache. Disoriented, she reached for Ann beside her before realizing with a start that she wasn't in the Warehouse quarters, nor was she in her own bed. She sat up as quickly as she could without making her head throb more, and was relieved to see Ann lying not too far away on a patch of grass under a tree. A... tree? Where were they, exactly? Anne scanned the area: they seemed to be well hidden on the edge of a farmer's orchard, tucked behind a low stone wall. _

_Immediately, she patted the pockets all over her person. If they had been robbed... but no, the pocket watch, her coin purse, pen, and all other personal effects had been left undisturbed, even if her pen was in the wrong pocket. Even her hat was within reach, toppled mere feet away by the wall. It must have rolled there when they had fallen, or been dumped here, or however they ended up outside London, which was in itself a curiosity. She crawled to her wife, who she sternly remembered should still have been on bed rest._

_"Ann," she called gently, taking her pulse out of habit. A good heart rate, she judged with a wave of relief. And another curiosity: her fingers were stained with ink and her watch read an entirely different time than when she had last checked. It now read ten forty-nine, when she remembered it reading twelve thirty. Ann groaned softly and stirred, her cheek smudged with dirt, blond hair disturbed and everywhere, having been clumsily tied back instead of traditionally styled. Anne pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her wife's face._

_"Where are we?" Ann asked, wincing as she rose to a sitting position. The wounds from her incident with the still-at-large death shroud had closed and were mostly healed, though any internal damage was still in the final stages of fixing itself._

_"Can't be too far out of London, no one could have taken us very far in..." she looked at her watch again, calculating the times. "...twenty-two hours and nineteen minutes. Is this someone's idea of a joke?" She went to replace the watch in its resident pocket, and her knuckle grazed the edge of a slip of parchment._

_Anne Lister was not often surprised and Ann Walker knew this. But as soon as Anne laid eyes on the parchment, her mouth dropped open. Ann couldn't truly read what was written in a fine, unfamiliar hand, but she recognized the pattern of symbols, letters, and numbers as Anne's own encryption of her diaries._

_"What does it say?"_

_Anne's hand shook as she held up the slip to read. "Caesar's shroud is out of reach. It won't make another appearance for a hundred and eighty years or so. All will be well." She thought she saw a signature initial, but it was smudged, as though the writer must have taken haste to fold the note and tuck it in her pocket. Holding the parchment in her left hand, her eyes darted back and forth between the note and the ink-stained thumb of her own right hand. She pressed her thumb against the smear, and it fit the ink silhouette perfectly._

_"Who do you think wrote it?"_

_"That's the problem, Ann," she said, showing her blackened fingers. "I did."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a marathon chapter, y'all. I have lost sleep over the urgency of needing to write this chapter. For that reason, I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing!
> 
> As always, remember to be kind to yourselves and others, with the express exception of oppressive parties, and to smash any of the lovely buttons accompanying this fic, should it strike your fancy. I am unashamed that I live for your comments.
> 
> Cheers,  
Jo


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